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by clocksworks



Category: Depeche Mode
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:54:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 82,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26195977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clocksworks/pseuds/clocksworks
Summary: It is 1997, and the remaining members of Depeche Mode have finally decided to call it a day. Alan is surprised, although not too concerned; he’s already carved out a life for himself in the British countryside, and all he wants now is a relaxed, peaceful existence.That is, until Dave shows up on his doorstep, fresh out of rehab and looking to make amends.
Relationships: Dave Gahan/Alan Wilder
Comments: 301
Kudos: 89





	1. Safe as Houses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sapphican](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphican/gifts).



> So this was previously published ten years ago under another title, but I felt my writing at the time was seriously lacking (and to be honest, really awful). However, I couldn’t really let go of the ideas and themes the original plot encompassed: second chances, starting afresh, the quiet healing allure of domesticity. 
> 
> I decided to rewrite everything, and if you have read the original story, you may find many things are different. I apologise for that, but hope that my writing has managed to improve just a little bit since then. This is a bit darker than the original story, but there’s definitely a happy ending. There are also going to be a few flashbacks, so I marked the year and location where possible to avoid confusion.
> 
> I also decided to change a few things. For example, there is no Hep in this story, so Alan’s girlfriend during the SOFAD period is completely fictional. Neither Alan nor Dave get married (again). I also have no idea where the real Alan lives, although Fletch has said in interviews that he lives in ‘a big mansion in the British countryside’, and it’s somewhere in Sussex. I picked Chichester for the purposes of this story.
> 
> In this fic, Alan looks [something like this](https://youtu.be/jpD32cCVRu0?t=23).
> 
> Dave [before](https://youtu.be/depcQkwFWdM?t=71) (when he first turns up at Alan’s house) and [after](https://youtu.be/q4MfE77TS08?t=4).
> 
> This is dedicated to the very lovely **sapphican** who loves Ultra!Dave so very much. I hope you like this!  
>   
> 

**1997 - Chichester, UK**

The real estate agent had mentioned many things to Alan about the house, but she’d said the following with the utmost care and tact: _this property will require a lot of upkeep_. Alan hadn’t missed the way her eyes had darted down to his bare ring finger, her lips thinning in worry. He was capable of reading between the lines to decipher what she was really saying: _this house is too big for one person_.

It didn’t matter though. Alan had loved the place the moment he’d driven by during his casual exploration of Chichester while looking for a place to live. The house was a sprawling five-bedroom property with three baths and a surprisingly large garden, guarded by a brick perimeter with secure mechanical gates. A gated property was important: Alan was too wary of enterprising fans who had managed to root out his various addresses over the years.

However, what sealed the deal for him was when he’d descended into the spacious, cavernous basement. Already he could foresee the home studio of his dreams.

Of course, he wasn’t that impulsive to cry out, “I’ll take it!” on the spot. He’d shaken hands with the agent, then continued to view at least ten more properties in four surrounding villages. He did copious amounts of research. He drove back and forth between London and Chichester so often that he could do it blindfolded. He carried out yet more research.

In the end, nothing had captured his heart quite like the Chichester property. So at the end of summer, Alan signed the papers and wrote a cheque, then began the laborious process of moving everything he owned from London. His parents had been quite nice about letting him use most of their attic space, but he’d felt uneasy about asking too much from them. They’d been on eggshells around him ever since he’d left the band, treating him too kindly and pretending like he had merely been away for the last 15 years instead, teaching piano in Norway or something. It made Alan long for a sense of normalcy again, and he knew it was out of his reach as long as he remained in London.

Alan made the decision to hire some very expensive premium movers, and they’d been worth the money. He’d arrived in Chichester with most of his furniture unpacked and already in place, his storage items neatly sorted into the attic. However, he’d given stern instructions for his extensive record and CD collection to be left alone. He had every intent of setting up his private music library himself.

It was his first week in the house, and he was in the middle of sorting out the F’s in his record collection and humming along to Fleetwood Mac when the doorbell suddenly chimed. Alan looked up from his box of records, a little confused. He wasn’t expecting a delivery, and he'd only just registered his address with the local post office yesterday. Turning down the volume on his speakers, he listened intently. There it was again, definitely the doorbell. Mystified, he got up from his spot on the floor and made his way downstairs to where the security display was. There was a camera aimed at the gate, so he could easily screen visitors.

The person standing in front of his gates made his jaw drop in disbelief.

When the doorbell rang for the third time, it startled Alan out of his daze. He jabbed the ‘Open Gate’ button, watching as Dave gave the camera a cheeky little salute before trudging up the driveway, out of view for now. A stunned Alan made his way to the front door, unbolting and unlocking it. By the time he got it open, Dave was already standing on his porch, a small uncertain smile on his face. He had an overnight bag slung across his shoulder.

Dave looked... _different_.

The last time Alan had seen him in person, Dave had been painfully skinny, his hair down to his shoulders, and he’d had that ridiculous moustache and goatee. Thankfully now Dave had put on a bit more weight and shaved off all the facial hair, so he looked much healthier, more like himself. His hair was still long but cropped shorter, just past his ears. There were deep lines around his eyes and mouth that weren’t there before. It would age most people immensely, but on Dave, they just gave him character and gravitas, like he’d crawled through hell and lived to tell the tale - which was mostly true, in a way.

The biggest difference to Alan, though, were Dave’s eyes. They were no longer dull and dead; now they were clear and bright again, that unique shade that forever straddled the line between green and brown. They were taking Alan in right now, raking him in from head to toe. “Fuck, look at you,” Dave said with a low whistle. Alan could hear the genuine appreciation in his tone. “You look good, mate.”

“How did you know...” Alan gestured at the door, still at a loss for words.

“Kess,” Dave said, which explained everything. It had been necessary for Alan to let Kess know how to reach him, in terms of legal and business matters. “Erm sorry to ask, Al, but can I come in? I really need to have a wee.”

This was so direct and so Dave that it made Alan laugh a little and forget his shock, stepping backwards so Dave could enter the house. “Fuck, sorry. Turn left, it’s two doors down.”

“Cheers.” Dave dropped the bag onto the sofa before hurrying in the direction Alan had pointed out. Alan took these much-needed few minutes to gather his thoughts, trying to figure out why Dave was here. Well, there could only be three reasons, really:

  1. Dave came to apologise,
  2. He wanted to see how Alan was doing,
  3. He came to ask Alan for something.



Judging from Dave’s body language so far, Alan was rather confident of his first and second guesses. Then again, Dave had changed a _lot_ in the past few years. The man Alan knew like the back of his hand for most of his adult life was no longer the same man who’d turned up on his doorstep.

The muffled sound of the toilet flush was followed by running water - Dave washing his hands. By the time he’d emerged, Alan had managed to collect himself and was waiting for him on the sofa, hands folded over his lap.

“Sorry.” Dave looked much more refreshed as he came back out into the living room, having splashed water on his face as well. “Was a long drive from Bas, y’know? Then I spent a bit of time driving around Chichester, looking for your place. Had to hold it in.”

“Thought you hired a driver,” Alan said. “Where’s your car?”

“Parked outside your gates.” Dave gestured vaguely in that particular direction.

“You staying long?” Alan asked. “If you are, I’ll open the garage. You could park it inside, if you like.”

To Alan’s surprise, Dave’s gaze guiltily shifted down to the floor. “Depends on whether I’m welcome, I guess,” he said a little too casually, playing with the strap of his bag.

Dave looked so small and uncertain here that Alan honestly didn’t know what to say. Despite everything that had gone down between them in the last few years, Dave had always been - and would always be - his really good mate, his brother in arms. They’d gone through too much together for Alan to remain disappointed with him for getting mired in a senseless addiction. Yes, it was senseless, and yes Dave wasn’t without blame. But Alan couldn’t imagine Dave not ever being in his life again.

Dave must have mistaken Alan’s silence for hostility, his face briefly shadowed in hurt and guilt before his features eased into a blank expression. “I’ll just be on my way, yeah?” Dave said quietly, moving to pick up his bag. “Glad to see you’re well, Al. That’s all I wanted.”

“Wait.” Alan got to his feet, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around Dave in an airtight hug. It only took Dave a second to hug Alan back just as tightly, his breath warm against Alan’s shoulder. Alan thought he could feel Dave trembling.

“Silly wanker.” Alan smacked the back of Dave’s head fondly, before ruffling his longish hair. Dave let out a hoarse laugh, squeezing the nape of Alan’s neck in affection like he used to do in the old days. "You can stay for at least one cuppa before I call security.”

Dave huffed at him indignantly as he released Alan. “Look at you, all high and mighty now just because you’ve bought a house bigger than a bloody shed.”

“Excuse you,” Alan said. “I do have an actual garden shed now and it’s bigger than that dingy flat you used to have in Chelsea.”

“Dingy? You fuckin’ traitor.” Dave was chortling. “You weren’t complaining about it being _dingy_ when you spent all those nights there. Especially whenever Jeri tossed out your miserable arse, remember?”

They continued bickering in jest as Alan went to open the gates again to let in Dave’s car. Although it was still a little awkward between them, this back-and-forth affectionate sniping was more familiar territory for Alan, which he knew how to navigate. At least it was a lot easier than addressing the giant pink elephant in the room that neither of them were going to mention for now.

Dave led him to a sleek grey Porsche parked down the road - Alan suspected the car was the latest model. “The 986 Boxster,” Dave said proudly, running his hand down the hood. “If Aladdin’s magic carpet turned into a car, this would be it, mate.”

“Wow.” Alan grimaced at the car. "Are you _trying_ to announce to everybody that you're having a mid life crisis?"

“Oh, fuck off,” Dave said with a laugh. “Like you don’t have an equally obnoxious car parked in your garage.”

Alan actually did have something similar, but he wasn’t going to give Dave the satisfaction. “Bring it in, then,” he said instead. “If you’re staying for dinner, I’ll call for delivery.”

“Indian!” Dave shouted, before he climbed into the car and started the engine.

And just like that, Dave Gahan was back in Alan’s life and staying for dinner at his new place. Alan shook his head in momentary disbelief before heading in to make the call for delivery.

  


***  
  


**1994 - Exotic Tour**

Dave knew something was wrong the moment he withdrew the needle from his arm. The usual sweet, crazy rush of bliss was a lot more muted, as though someone had heartlessly turned down the volume on his high. He blinked at the syringe in a daze, tapping it needlessly.

“What’s wrong, baby?” the woman beside him asked, tugging at his vest. Her eyes were dark in the light of the many candles strewn around his room. He didn’t even know her name.

He shakily stood up, tossing away the syringe carelessly and loosening his makeshift tourniquet. Warmth rushed into his arm again, but the expected sanguine euphoria of the smack was still missing. He rubbed his arm, frowning in confusion. He had so many questions, but his mouth was as dry as sand. Panic was welling up instead; what the hell had he just injected into himself?

An icy cold fist of fear gripped his heart.

He stumbled away from his room, ignoring the concerned questions of the strange woman in his bed. The maze of hotel corridors all looked the same to him, like any other hotel in any other city or country. But for some reason he remembered the cockatoo sculpture in the lift lobby, how he and Alan had shared a rare laugh over it in the lift as Dave had gotten off for his floor. _His_ floor. They all stayed on separate floors now, a far cry from the days where the four of them would happily share rooms to save money on the road.

 _Alan._ He needed to find Alan, right now. Dave wanted his mother, he wanted Jack. But most of all he wanted Alan. Alan would understand, Alan wouldn’t pity Dave or cry and beg him to stop. And Alan was the only one here in...whichever the hell country they were in right now.

Dave tried a few floors, but he instinctively knew he’d gotten the right one when he tumbled out of the lift and the security guards barely blinked an eye at him - unlike the guards for Fletch or Martin, who tensed up whenever Dave appeared. Dave stopped to give one of them a questioning glance, eyeing a tall, muscular bloke with a shiny bald head. The guard pointed to the suite at the end of the corridor in response to Dave’s unspoken question. Dave nodded in thanks, staggering towards his destination with a shaky determination.

Dave knocked twice. He thought he heard laughter inside, then footsteps heading to the door. The peephole momentarily darkened, and Dave found himself counting the seconds before the door swung open.

Seven and a half. Seven and a half seconds before Alan opened the door for him.

Alan didn’t look angry or upset. He just seemed puzzled, as though Dave were a fellow guest who had accidentally knocked on the wrong door. It was such a world away from how the two of them used to constantly dip in and out of each other’s rooms, uninvited but always welcome. Now, it felt like Dave was viewing Alan through a coffin of glass, muted and cut off from him.

“What’s wrong?” Alan asked cautiously, eyes tracking all over Dave for injuries or signs of anything untoward.

“I--” Dave’s words were stuck in his throat. _I’m lost. I’m trapped. I’m done. I’m scared._

“Charlie?” a female voice floated out from inside. It was Natalia, of course. “Who is it?”

Dave felt sick to his stomach. Instinctively he’d known that of course Alan’s girlfriend would call him Charlie too. But it’d always felt like something sacred between him and Alan, something to be treasured and hidden away like a beloved old photograph. Dave hated this senseless feeling, like he had somehow been robbed.

“Give me a minute,” Alan called back. He stepped out, closing the door behind him. Now he really did look worried. “Dave, what’s the matter?”

More than anything, Dave wanted to step forward and wrap his arms around Alan, bury his face in Alan’s shoulder and weep until he was wrung dry like a dishrag. He wanted Alan telling him he would be all right, _they_ would be all right, they’d all be a band again and they would all be friends again and not four strangers playing on a stage. He wanted Alan smiling fondly at him like he did in the old days, when they were out on the streets of Berlin randomly collecting sounds from construction sites, young and reckless and completely unaware of what was waiting for them.

“Nothing,” Dave said instead. His own voice felt very faraway and distant, like he was listening to a stranger talk. “I-- sorry to have disturbed you, Al.”

Alan’s eyebrows knitted together in a frown. “Are you sure? You’re-- we can talk, is that what you want?”

If only that was what Dave wanted. He couldn’t help laughing, his hand combing through his hair to brush it away from his face. “No, that’s-- never mind.” If Alan knew what Dave really wanted, he’d walk off in disgust. Then Dave would lose the last of him like everyone else, everyone in Dave’s life who’d decided he wasn’t worth the trouble and walked out.

Alan’s lips thinned to a flat line. “Is this a joke? Are you high right now?”

“Yeah, I just shot up. Feels great." Dave was still smiling, even as Alan’s eyes blazed with that simmering, roiling anger Dave knew that only Fletch could ever inspire. And now him, apparently. Alan could get angry at him now too, in this strange new world they inhabited.

“Glad to know.” Every single one of Alan’s words were encrusted in ice. “Good night, Dave.”

Dave stared at the door long after it had shut in his face.  
  


***  
  


**1997 - Chichester, UK**

Alan’s new place in the Sussex countryside was a little too quiet for Dave; he’d gotten too used to the golden yet crowded sprawl of LA, as well as the frenetic energy of New York. Being back in England was not only fucking up his body clock but his general sense of things: driving on the left, the serious lack of good Mexican food, hearing about the antics of Tony Blair on the radio instead of Clinton. Dave had spent the last two weeks in Bas with his mum and Jack, getting reacquainted with them while trying to adjust to everything else. At least he’d gotten over the worst of his jet lag, but he still found himself caught off guard whenever someone spoke to him in a crisp British accent instead of a flat American drawl.

When it was time for Jack to go back to school, Dave finally allowed himself to think about looking Alan up. He’d thought a lot about it in rehab - most times, there was nothing to do there _but_ think - and he’d imagined several scenarios where Alan would shout at him, refuse to see him, or even order him off his property. It was a little unbelievable, thinking of cool and calm Alan shouting at anyone, let alone him. But in rehab, Dave had plenty of time to let his imagination run wild.

He’d heard from Daryl that Alan was living alone, and he had split up with Nat rather acrimoniously, which was surprising. Dave thought that when Alan had been making his escape plan all those years ago, settling down and getting married to Nat would have always been on the cards.

Getting Alan’s address through Kess had been easy enough. The tough part was ascertaining the possibility of Alan still being angry with him. Throughout the drive from Bas to Chichester, Dave had the steering wheel in a tight, white-knuckled grip the entire time, his heart clutched in a claw of fear. He’d let many people down, but Alan was one of the worst casualties. He’d left Alan all alone in the band, had let him shoulder all the work and do all the heavy lifting while Dave had spent his days distracted by a rainbow of vices.

Martin and Fletch had their part to play too, of course. In the end, all four of them did.

So it’d been a pleasant surprise when Alan had welcomed Dave into his house nonetheless. Here they were, eating Indian takeaway in Alan’s empty kitchen, Alan sipping on a glass of wine while Dave opted for some Perrier. Alan had only just moved in last week, and Dave was relieved he seemed to have caught Alan at an opportune time.

It was really good to see Alan again. These days he wore his hair much shorter, but other than that, he’d hardly changed. If anything, he seemed more relaxed and serene now, less tense. Dave sat at the kitchen table, just tearing apart his naan and listening as Alan talked about why he’d chosen the house and what he intended to do with it. Alan still possessed that endearing little habit of constantly quirking his left eyebrow to emphasize a point he was making, and for a moment it felt like they were thrown back in time and were sitting in one of their flats a decade ago, just talking about everything and nothing.

“What about a home studio?” Dave said. He knew he’d asked the right question when Alan’s mouth crooked up in a pleased smile. “You gonna convert one of the bedrooms?”

“The basement,” Alan said, tilting his head downwards. “I’ll show you later, it’s massive. I could easily fit in an entire recording studio, a control room-- even a grand piano and drum kit, I reckon.”

Dave dipped his naan into some vindaloo. “Good thing you don’t have any direct neighbours.” 

“It’s one of the reasons I bought this house,” Alan admitted.

Dave chortled. “No wonder when I asked that bloke at the post office for directions, he said, ‘Oh that new place with the surly hermit?’”

Alan tossed a piece of naan at him with a laugh. “You’re a bloody liar.”

“Alright, so maybe he didn’t say those exact words.” Dave grinned. “His face said it all, though.”

After finishing up their dinner, Alan poured himself a nice cold glass of Riesling while handing Dave another bottle of Perrier. He led Dave through a short tour of the house: there was Alan’s main bedroom, and in the room next door he was setting up shelves to build his own little music library, complete with an antique turntable and an old leather wing-back armchair that looked enormously comfortable and inviting. Another room had only a double bed in it, which Alan mentioned was meant for guests. The other two rooms were left empty.

“What are you going to do with them?” Dave asked, nursing his lemon Perrier.

“Not sure yet.” Alan sipped his wine thoughtfully. “But I’ll have plenty of time to figure it out.”

“Always handy to have your own sex dungeon installed,” Dave suggested, as Alan laughed. “I’m just saying--”

“Duly noted, you pervert,” Alan said, and Dave was rather gratified to hear a little bit of that old fondness creeping back into his voice.

They ended the tour with Alan’s back porch, which faced his overgrown garden - another project Alan meant to tackle during his so-called retirement. The Sussex sky was a beautiful salmon pink as the sun sank into the horizon, puffy storybook clouds dotted here and there. There was a wooden bench swing installed on the porch, and Dave wondered if the house’s previous owners had installed this for their kids. He and Alan took a seat on the swing, swaying back and forth slowly as they took in the view in comfortable silence.

“So what’s next for you?” Alan asked, slanting him a curious look.

Dave sighed, leaning back and letting himself sprawl out in comfort. “Dunno, really. It’s been ninety days since I left rehab, y’know? And they always tell us to take one day at a time. So I guess that’s what I’m doing, yeah? Planning everything one day at a time. After I left, I knew I wanted to see my family, spend some time with them. Maybe look you up, and Daryl too, you know?”

“What happened with Mart and Fletch?” Alan’s tone held no bitterness or anger, only a detached sense of wonder. “I mean, I saw it in the news--”

“Yeah, we called it a day.” Dave pressed the cool curved glass of his Perrier bottle against his cheek, staring out at the scenery of the rolling countryside. He’d still remembered the crackle of Martin’s voice over that damning phone call: _is this it, Dave?_ One broken person, asking someone equally broken whether they could fix something besides themselves. What a joke.

Dave’s throat felt dry when he admitted to Alan, “I couldn’t sing anymore.”

Beside him, he could sense Alan shifting in his seat to face Dave, the porch swing swaying with his movements. Alan had the rare gift of creating an easy, unassuming silence that invited people to tell him all their secrets, and Dave had been no exception. Over the years he’d told Alan almost everything about himself, all his secrets except for one which he intended to carry to his grave.

“It’s not you, y’know,” Alan said after a long silence, interrupting Dave’s thoughts. “You’re not just your voice. You’re more than that.”

“I know.” Dave examined his nails; the black polish was starting to flake off.

“No, you don’t.” And for the very first time that day, Dave thought he heard the hard edge of anger finally creeping into Alan’s voice. He shot Alan a wary look, watching as his friend quickly downed his wine in one long gulp. Alan didn’t say anything, his jaw tight with tension as he got up and marched into the house, but he was back in a moment with more wine and another Perrier for Dave.

They retreated to safer topics now: Jack, the recent election, more about Alan’s plans for the house. As Dave watched Alan talking about the house, his hands gesticulating animatedly as usual, Dave found himself wanting to stay and help him with those projects, as crazy as it sounded. After rehab, he’d craved normalcy more than anything else. He’d hoped that going back to Bas might have helped with that, but there were too many people who knew him back there, people who’d had front row seats to his very public failures, people who shot him pitying looks in the streets and shops.

Dave wanted someone who wouldn’t judge him. He knew Alan wouldn’t, even if he still harboured remnants of anger and resentment towards Dave - and the rest - over how he’d been treated over the last album.

And if he wanted to stay with Alan for other reasons, well - those were part of the secret Dave intended to take to his grave.

“I can’t wait to get started on the studio,” Alan was saying, swirling his wine in his glass. The sun had fully set now, and the sky was turning a deep dusky blue, stars starting to twinkle into existence that they’d never be able to see in London. “It’ll be a lot of work though.”

“You settled on a contractor yet?” Dave asked, tucking his feet under his legs and making the swing wobble again as a result.

Alan shook his head. “Thought of scouting out some potential leads next week. They’ll probably all be in London though.” His mouth pursed in distaste. “Might have to head up there to see them. I’ll have to special-order all the instruments and equipment too.”

“I hope your studio goes well, mate,” Dave said sincerely, as Alan shot him a smile. “And if not, don’t forget that sex dungeon idea.”

Chuckling as they headed back into the house, Alan washed his glass before sorting out the bottles for recycling. “Hey Al, where’s the nearest decent hotel in these parts?” Dave asked, leaning against the kitchen counter.

Alan didn’t say anything for a long time. It was only when he had washed his hands and was wiping them on a dish towel that he said, “Why don’t you stay here a while?”

Dave straightened his posture, his heart beating wildly with hope. “Really?”

Shrugging, Alan neatly folded the towel and put it aside. “Got that guest room I showed you earlier,” he said. “And clearly I’ll need help putting together the sex dungeon since I have _no_ experience whatsoever--”

“And you’re insinuating I do?” Dave said with fake outrage as Alan laughed. “Wanker.”

“I mean, if you have nothing planned.” Alan folded his arms, looking at Dave with that nonchalant, easy manner he had. Dave still didn’t know if he was angry or upset; with Alan, still waters ran deep. But if Alan was insisting that he stay, then surely things could be salvaged between them?

Dave broke into a smile. “One day at a time, remember? I don’t even know what I’m going to have for breakfast tomorrow. So I’m up for anything, mate.”

“Then it’s settled,” Alan declared. “You will stay here and build me a sex dungeon.”

“What the hell did I sign up for?” Dave pretended to sigh, as Alan grinned and led him to the guest room.

Since Alan really had just moved in, there was nothing in the spare bedroom - not even a duvet or toothpaste, both of which Dave nicked from Alan’s room. For a moment it was very much like they were sharing hotel rooms again, Alan offering up things Dave might have forgotten to bring or left behind at another hotel. Alan had been an excellent roommate; Dave had once tried rooming with Fletch when he’d had a major row with Martin, and by the next day Dave had been seriously considering looking up the local laws for manslaughter. Alan had laughed at him, but the next time he’d fallen on the grenade and insisted on sharing with Dave. It was one of the many things Alan did for Dave without him even having to ask.

They spent a few hours watching something boring on telly before Alan yawned around ten and said he was heading to bed, and Dave teased him about turning into an old country farmer. Swatting sleepily at Dave’s head, Alan had muttered good night and shuffled off to his room. Dave stayed up for a while more, watching Alan’s telly and drinking the last of his Perrier.

“What am I bloody doing here?” he asked himself, more out of frustration and disbelief than anything else. The blare of Pearl Jam on MTV answered his aimless question with a furious clash of cymbals.

Heading to bed soon after, Dave quickly took a shower with Alan’s borrowed soap. Changing into a tank top and briefs, he flopped onto the mattress and draped Alan’s borrowed duvet over him. Dave was a masochist, he already knew that through and through. His therapist had listened to his ramblings with grave concern and warned him to stay far away from Alan. “Don’t trade one addiction for another,” she’d told him sternly. But of course he hadn’t bloody listened. If he’d been smart, he would have stayed in New York and tried to build a life there. But instead, here he was, smelling of Alan’s soap and snuggling under Alan’s duvet like a fucking idiot.

“Good night, Charlie,” Dave whispered, wondering if he could hear Alan’s quiet breathing from the next room. But all he heard was silence.


	2. If For Honesty, You Want Apologies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to express a heartfelt thank you to everyone who has been reading this! Your comments and messages really moved me a lot.
> 
> This is for the very wonderful **what-could-have-been** , who had very kindly helped me with the opening paragraphs for the first chapter of ‘Home’. I’m also so appreciative of all her beautiful DM artwork, and for listening to me rant when I’d lost faith in my writing. This chapter - especially the audition scene - is dedicated to her. Hope you like it, dear **what-could-have-been**!

**1997 - Chichester, UK**

The next morning, Alan woke up and rubbed at his eyes, blinking away the last vestiges of sleep. He wondered if the events of the previous day had actually happened. Had Dave really turned up on his doorstep out of the blue yesterday afternoon, and ended up staying over in his guest room?

Well, there was only one way to confirm if it had all just been a fevered dream.

Alan got out of bed and tiptoed over to the room next to his. The door had been left ajar, and when Alan poked his head in, he was greeted with the sight of Dave face-down in bed, his bare legs tangled in Alan’s duvet and his longish hair mussed into something resembling a bird’s nest. However, Dave seemed to be really deeply asleep, his soft snores filling the room even as Alan knocked quietly on the door in a bid to wake him. Yesterday, Dave had looked really tired when he’d arrived, like he hadn’t slept peacefully in years.

Closing the door so Dave wouldn’t be disturbed, Alan headed to his own bathroom for his morning ablutions. He was running low on things like soap, shaving foam and toothpaste, which Dave would need as well. Later, once Dave woke up, Alan thought of suggesting a quick drive to the city so they could stock up at the supermarket and a few other shops. Alan’s kitchen and cupboards were rather hilariously bare, and he didn’t want to rely on delivery too often.

About an hour later, Alan was rummaging in the fridge for the last of his cheese and bread when Dave shuffled into the kitchen, yawning and scratching the back of his head. “Welcome to the land of the living,” Alan said dryly, grinning as Dave flipped him off.

“Got any coffee?” Dave peeked into a few cupboards hopefully.

“No, and I’m almost out of tea as well.” Alan set a few slices of bread and a hunk of cheddar on the counter. “Thought I might nip into town later for some supplies. You in?”

Dave considered this before shrugging. “Sure, why not? I’m outta cigs too.”

They brought the food and the last of Alan’s tea out into the dining room, which was flooded with sunshine and cheeriness. It had large French windows that overlooked Alan’s overgrown garden; after years of living in cities, Alan was never more glad to be surrounded by so much greenery. They ate with the radio in the background, quietly discussing the list of things they wanted to stock up on before eating in comfortable silence. Alan was hungry, but Dave seemed content to munch slowly and thoughtfully, his gaze lingering on the wild shrubbery of Alan’s garden.

Alan couldn’t quite keep his eyes off Dave, no matter how hard he tried. It’d felt like a miracle, having this new Dave with him, a Dave who seemed so much more _present_ and alert like they were finally back on the same frequency. Ever since Madrid, Alan had resigned himself to living with a spectre of Dave, one who may have been physically present but was never really quite there at all. There had been a few moments during those years where he’d tried to genuinely connect with Dave, and he knew there were some rare instances of lucidity where Dave had attempted to seek him out too. But by then, it’d all been too little, too late.

When Dave finally spoke, it was a rather pedestrian question that left Alan feeling like he’d wanted to ask something else instead. “How d’ya feel with smoking in your place?” Dave looked at him, tapping his fingers on the table.

Alan shrugged. “I don’t mind it in the house, I still have the occasional cig sometimes. Just-- open a window, y’know?”

“Got it.” Dave gave him a small smile before getting up with his plate and taking it to the kitchen. Afterwards, Alan could hear the small creak of the kitchen window being propped open, followed by the _snick-snick_ of a lighter and Dave’s relieved exhale.

Alan could sense that Dave was treading lightly around him, still afraid that Alan’s residual anger was lying in the shadows somewhere, a caged beast waiting to be unleashed. But Alan honestly didn’t know if his anger was that resilient or enduring. He’d already burnt through the bulk of it back in Madrid, his fury mounting day by day in small increments as he and Flood had thanklessly slaved away in the studio and everyone else had decided to fuck off and do their own thing. He’d just tried to focus on getting the job done - but of course it had eaten away at him, left him hollow and defeated and feeling utterly used.

The anger had followed him on tour, like so much unwanted baggage. If it hadn’t been for Daryl and Alison - along with Natalia and the rest of her band - Alan might have thrown in the towel like Fletch and jumped ship halfway too. But their friendship and support had helped him greatly, helped to fill the gaping empty void that Dave’s absence had left behind.

Alan sighed, clearing his own empty plate and cup. It was useless to ruminate on the past so much. When he went into the kitchen, Dave was perched on the windowsill, half leaning out as he exhaled a stream of smoke. His smile when he spotted Alan seemed genuine. “I really like your new place, Al,” he said quietly.

Alan rinsed his plate and cup in the sink. “The property agent kept hinting that the house was too big for me.” He couldn’t help smirking. “Pretty sure she was convinced I was a serial killer.”

Dave chuckled. “And that you were gonna turn this place into your murder mansion?”

“Probably.” Alan grinned at him. “How do you feel about being the first victim?”

Dave made a face. “Would’ve been nice to have some coffee before I die screaming, to be honest.”

After cleaning up, they got into Alan’s car to head into town, which was really only a ten-minute drive at most. Alan had deliberately picked a house on the outskirts where he could make all the racket he wanted in his home studio without incensing any irate neighbours, but he’d also wanted the convenience of shops and civilisation nearby so that he could get food and CDs on a regular basis. They took the leisurely route to town, Dave making him keep the top down so they could enjoy the weather. Alan shot Dave a fond sideways glance; Dave had his eyes closed, seemingly enjoying the wind whipping through his longish hair.

Alan almost regretted it when the drive came to an end, Dave opening his eyes as though he’d just awoken from a particularly pleasant dream. Alan used to be able to tell whatever Dave was thinking just from his facial cues alone: the downwards tug of his mouth meant he was upset, the wrinkling of his nose meant he was confused, the brightness of his eyes meant he was happy, the tightness of his jaw meant he was furious. But now, Alan felt like he no longer owned the map to the geography of Dave’s face, like he’d forgotten a language he was once fluent in. Dave had been somewhere else - both physically and mentally - in the last few years, had done things Alan would never hear of, had met people whose names Alan would never know.

“Al?” Dave sounded cautious. When Alan’s attention snapped back to reality, he realised Dave was already out of the car and waiting for him. They were parked outside a Waitrose. “Everything okay, mate?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Alan hurriedly put the top up, getting out of the car and avoiding Dave’s questing gaze. “Just woolgathering.”

“You really gotta watch that Alzheimer’s, y’know.” Dave cackled as Alan rolled his eyes at him, both of them stopping to grab a cart at the supermarket entrance. “First you’re losing your train of thought. Next thing you know, you’re forgetting to put on your trousers when you leave the house.”

“Nice to see you’ve been devoting so much thought to me not wearing trousers.” Alan had really meant it as a wry joke, so he was surprised when Dave’s eyes widened in alarm, his cheeks turning pink for a moment before he scurried towards the dairy section. Alan filed away that strange moment for further contemplation later.

The rest of the supermarket shopping went relatively peacefully, Alan picking out sensible things like pasta and yoghurt while Dave gleefully shopped like a hyperglycemic 5-year-old, choosing chocolates and crisps. Then Alan went to stock up on wine and vodka before they loaded up on a few cases of San Pellegrino and Perrier for Dave. Alan supposed he could always finish the remainder of it if they outlasted Dave’s stay.

Alan hadn’t asked how long Dave was intending to stay with him, and Dave hadn’t mentioned anything either. Alan knew Dave’s mantra from treatment was to take things one day at a time, so he didn’t think Dave had made plans beyond a week ahead, at the most. Now that the band was done, Alan didn’t know what was next on the horizon for Dave. But he wasn’t going to push Dave or hurry him along either. As long as Dave kept drugs out of the house, Alan didn’t mind having him around. It would be useful to have another pair of hands to help with his many projects.

After leaving the supermarket, they walked past a shop selling art supplies. Seeing the longing look on Dave’s face, Alan asked him if he wanted to go in. Dave only hesitated for a moment before shaking his head. “Nah, I’m good,” he said, and there was something final in his tone that made Alan drop the subject instead of pursuing it. Still, it gave Alan an idea he tucked away for later.

However, Dave insisted on stopping by a gardening store that sold all sorts of plants, seeds and supplies. He seemed to know what he was doing, asking the staff about potting soil and weed killers, and Alan’s surprise must have been obvious for Dave explained that his mother had a flourishing garden back home in Bas, and he and his sister had helped her when they were little.

Lastly, they stopped by the only record store on the high street to see if any new releases had come in. The shop was virtually deserted on a late Monday morning, populated only by two of the staff and an elderly couple browsing the Classical section. Alan went to hunt down the new Radiohead record - he owned the CD, but not the vinyl - and he picked up a few more by artists he’d heard via Steve Lamacq. The shop was blasting something Britpop-ish on the speakers, and Alan laughed when he caught Dave sticking out his tongue in distaste.

As Alan went to pay for his purchases, he noticed the bloke at the cashier was staring a little oddly at him. “You look familiar,” he told Alan as he rang up the purchases. His nametag read ‘Ollie’ in a messy script, and his black-framed glasses and blond spiky hair reminded Alan of a younger Fletch. “Have we met before?”

“Don’t think so,” Alan said casually, keeping a lookout for his car parked outside.

Of course, that was when Dave joined him at the counter with a stack of rock CDs. “What’re you getting?” Dave asked Alan, peering over at his selections.

By now, Ollie the cashier was gaping at Dave in complete disbelief, his gaze ping-ponging back and forth between Alan and Dave. Alan groaned inwardly; he’d hoped that they wouldn’t be recognised in a quiet city like Chichester, but maybe that had been too much to hope for. Dave also seemed to have caught on to the situation, his face sliding into that polite mask he put on whenever there were fans around.

Ollie’s hands were now shaking as he stuffed their records into a bag, his face slowly turning purple. “That will be £201.60,” he said, his voice sounding strangled.

Alan handed over his credit card. When Ollie saw the name engraved on it, he was obviously fighting very hard not to show any type of reaction. He handed the card back to Alan with admirable restraint, along with the credit card slip.

As Alan gave him the signed slip, Ollie hesitated before saying, “Okay look, I promise I’m not going to tell a soul that you two are here.”

Alan and Dave exchanged a wary look. “Uh, alright,” Dave said. He sounded more amused than anything else.

“But--” Ollie’s face was still a remarkable shade of purple. “I just wanted to tell you that ‘Masses’ changed my life, alright? And-- thank you. Really. I keep it stocked in the shop all the time.”

“It’s a good record,” Dave said calmly. “They’re a good band.”

Ollie’s face split into a wide, knowing grin. “Right, yeah, sure they are.” If the bloke actually winked at them, Alan was going to haul Dave out of here immediately. Thankfully, Ollie didn’t do anything so hammy. He seemed to have calmed down a little, now that he’d said his piece.

“Have a good day, then.” Alan shot him a polite smile, while Dave actually stopped to shake the bloke’s hand, sending him into little fits of happiness.

When they got back into the car, Dave rolled his eyes at the look Alan was giving him. “Oh c’mon, what? He seemed harmless.”

“Hope he is.” Alan started the car, trying not to let on that he was a little more rattled than he realised. He didn’t want to have to move house again if it really got out among the fans where his new place of residence was. “Fuck, I didn’t expect that.”

Dave shot him an amused smile. “What, in a record shop? C’mon Al, it’s like fuckin’ Bambi going out into the woods.”

“He said he wouldn’t tell anyone.” Alan made a turn for the road leading towards his house, paranoia making him check the rear-view mirror in case anyone was following them. There were no suspicious vehicles, unless Ollie had somehow managed to steal a milk truck.

“So let’s hope he keeps his word,” Dave said, sounding far too relaxed for this particular situation. “He seemed okay at the end of it. Just a bit starstruck, is all.”

“I hope you’re right.” Alan set off for the road home, letting out a long sigh.

“You’ve got to learn to trust people sometimes, Al.” Dave was staring out of the window thoughtfully. “I mean, not everyone’s trustworthy. But your gut will tell you, y’know?”

“I can’t rightfully trust someone I met five minutes ago,” Alan said a little incredulously.

“Why not?” Dave shot him a sharp look. “I was right about you, wasn’t I?”

Alan fought not to roll his eyes. He’d heard this story many times over the years, about how the other three had just known that Alan was the right fit for the band immediately from the start. He wondered if Mart and Fletch would say the same thing about him now, after everything that had gone down over the past few years. Some nights he still dreamt about being in Dan’s office with Mart and Fletch, about to drop them a bomb that they surely must have seen coming from a mile away - years away, to be exact.

Except that in his dreams, he wasn’t able to speak, his mouth moving but no words coming out. Sometimes he _would_ be able to speak, but Mart and Fletch weren’t listening to him, talking over him like he wasn’t even there. Those were the worst dreams, where he would be startled awake with his fists clenched in incandescent fury, reassuring himself with the _real_ memory of what had happened: the utter look of betrayal - and relief - on Fletch’s face, the way Martin had stared at the walls of Dan’s office in quiet resignation, retreating even more into himself.

Dave hadn’t been there, of course. Alan didn’t know if that had made things easier or worse.

Well, Dave was here now, right beside him in his car, staying in his house. Alan wondered what Dave had felt when he’d gotten back to his house in LA, finding Alan’s fax amidst notices from Kess or junk offers from property agents. They’d spoken on the phone after that, of course, but Dave hadn’t yet crawled out from the clutches of heroin at the time. Alan shot him a wondering glance, trying to imagine what this new Dave felt about Alan’s departure now.

Maybe he wouldn’t ever know.

***

**  
Late 1981 - Blackwing Studios, London**

“Jesus Christ.” Fletch stared in disgust after the guy who had just left the studio. “Did he even know how to play a bloody instrument?”

A tired Martin ran a hand raggedly through his hair. “At least he was better than that first bloke.”

Dave nodded wholeheartedly in agreement. So far, the people who had attended the audition today were really nothing but a joke. If these were the useless tossers that Dan had shortlisted, then Dave couldn’t even begin to fathom the really awful ones who hadn’t even made the cut. Only one bloke out of the whole lot was able to play an instrument, but he’d played the keyboard in a painstaking fashion, jabbing at the keys with one clumsy finger. It was also obvious he’d memorised the songs - he couldn’t even locate the ‘A’ key when Martin had asked him. It was so amateurish that he made Fletch look like bloody Mozart.

“How many more to go?” Dave asked, peeking over Martin’s shoulder to look at the list. It was a very short one - five blokes in total. Martin pointed his pencil at the last name. One more bloke to suffer through, then they would probably have to start the whole process from scratch and place another ad in the Maker, hopefully one far more vague so that it wouldn’t be just fans who turned up to the bloody audition.

There was a quiet knock on the studio door. “Come in!” Fletch yelled, as it swung open. Dave did a double take when he saw this new bloke was dressed mostly in black, like he’d walked straight out of the Banshees. He was actually quite good-looking, his sharp features standing out even without make-up. Dave could see Mart and Fletch sitting up as well, exchanging a look that seemed to indicate promise. The others who’d auditioned had dolled themselves up in the latest New Wave fashions, their hair artfully teased and their demeanour too frightfully overeager. This new bloke, on the other hand, just seemed politely bored.

“Hullo,” Fletch said, peering at Martin’s list. “Alex, is it?”

“Alan,” the bloke said, stepping forward to shake all their hands. “Alan Wilder.”

“I’m Dave, this is Mart and Fletch.” Dave pointed to his bandmates before sitting down again.

“You know who we are?” Fletch asked him. The other four blokes who’d auditioned had been stumbling over themselves, fawning over them like they were the next Kraftwerk. This Alan bloke didn’t appear particularly impressed.

“Er, Dan said you were Depeche Mode?” Alan said, looking to Dave as though he were a little unsure. Dave nodded back with a grin, while Fletch let out a little offended huff and Martin just chuckled nervously. As for himself, Dave couldn’t help liking this Alan guy more and more. He looked like he was genuinely disinterested in who they were.

“Do you know our songs?” Martin asked, folding his fingers over his lap.

“Dan asked me to learn “New Life’,” Alan said. “I’ve also heard ‘Just Can’t Get Enough’ on the radio a bit.”

“What do you think of us, then?” Fletch insisted.

Alan lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I think you’re okay.”

There was silence after that. Dave didn’t know what Martin was thinking, but he could see Fletch rolling his eyes, unimpressed by Alan’s apparent indifference.

“It says in Dan’s notes that you’re a studio assistant with DJM? And you’re classically trained?” Martin read out, arching an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah, I've been with DJM, and I have a Grade 8 in piano,” Alan said. “Know a bit of flute too. And a tiny bit of guitar, though I’m a bit shit at it, to be honest.”

“That’s all right,” Dave assured him. “Not much guitar in our music.”

Alan flashed him a private little smile, and Dave didn’t know why his insides did a tiny somersault. There was some kind of energy crackling between them, like something had finally fallen into place and everything just seemed to be flowing naturally. Dave wondered if Mart and Fletch were sensing the same thing, but it was hard to tell. Martin was staring hard at the paper, while Fletch had his arms folded across his chest in his classic defensive stance.

“Well, all right then,” Dave said brightly, when it was clear the silence was beginning to get uncomfortable. He stood up, gesturing towards the synths that were waiting for them. “Shall we?”

Martin led Alan to the Moog Prodigy that they’d set up for him. “Can you play this?”

Dave could tell Alan was biting back a sarcastic remark, his mouth twisting to the side before he replied with difficulty: “Yeah.”

“Great, let’s try ‘New Life’ now,” Fletch said, authoritative and straight-to-the-point as usual.

It was obvious how everyone’s face lit up in surprise when Alan flawlessly nailed the intro for ‘New Life’ before effortlessly launching into the solo. Dave was singing with a smile on his face, watching in awe as Alan’s fingers danced all over the keyboard like it was second nature for him. Fletch was staring with his mouth open, forgetting his own bass line at times as he watched Alan play. Martin had a surprised and pleased expression, trying his best to keep up with Alan on his Yamaha CS5.

When the song was done, the three of them burst into applause for Alan. “That was fuckin’ wonderful,” Dave declared, as Alan ducked his head in pleasure. “Best we’ve seen all day, eh lads?”

Martin nodded with a smile. “Another one, then?”

Fletch, who’d gotten past his earlier sulk, was now just as eager and impressed as the rest of them. “Why don’t we make him play both Mart’s and Vince’s parts for ‘Just Can’t Get Enough’?” he suggested, wiggling his eyebrows at Alan.

“Now you’re just being difficult, Andy,” Martin complained, as Fletch laughed evilly.

“Did you want me to sing, too?” Alan asked, completely unfazed as he changed the Moog’s settings.

Dave couldn’t quite stop the brilliant smile splitting his face. He had a feeling Alan was going to fit right in. “Yeah, yeah that would be grand.”

***

**1997 - Chichester, UK**

By the time they got back from the shops, Alan seemed less and less convinced that the bloke from the record store was going to leak his location to some vast underground network of fans. Dave was glad, because he could see that Alan was happy here in his new house, and it would be such a painstaking process for him to move before he was even able to set down roots here. If everything went well, Dave promised himself that he was going to help Alan turn his house into a home before he left.

Unloading all the groceries and everything else from Alan’s car, Alan disappeared into the kitchen to sort out the food while Dave went through all the gardening paraphernalia he’d bought in town. It’d been decades since he’d had his fingers knuckle-deep in the dark rich soil of his mum’s garden, but he’d still remembered what to do, how certain plants needed the sun and others the shade. Besides, if there was anything he’d forgotten, she was always a phone call away. Dave made a mental note to check in with Jack too. Jo was slowly starting to trust him again, and the agreement brokered over the summer was that Dave’s mum had to play chaperone whenever Dave spent time with Jack, which was fine. They’d had a lovely summer, taking long drives to Southend Pier and wasting away hours at the amusement park, Dave teaching Jack how to outwit the ancient Space Invader machines as a personal revenge for swallowing all his 20p coins as a boy.

Putting aside the gardening stuff into a box for later, Dave picked up the remote out of habit and clicked it on to MTV by default. These days, grunge had long taken a backseat by the time Dave had gotten out from rehab, giving way to the annoying boppish cheeriness of the Spice Girls and Take That. On the other end of the divide, Britpop was dominating the airwaves, and Dave had no patience for the boorish attitude of Oasis or the faux-art-school charm of Blur and their pretenders. But none of these bands - or even the Spice Girls - were on TV now. Instead, Dave froze as a very, very familiar voice reverberated from Alan’s expensive speakers, filling the entire living room.

His own.

Dave stared at himself from three - maybe four? - years ago, singing on stage and bathed in red light, hands clasped around the mic as though he were deep in prayer. His hair was long and straggly, as sweat-soaked as his clothes. He was wearing some kind of thick choker, his eyes shut the entire time. It was the live version of ‘Condemnation’, the camera cutting to Hildia and Samantha crooning the backing vocals. But even the loveliness of their voices could not disguise the brittle, broken quality of his own vocals, a far cry from his peak when he’d been the master of his voice, when it had easily met the limits Alan had pushed him to. This beaten-down, wretched version of him could barely sing, his vocals hoarse and cracked with pain and abuse.

Alan must have heard the song, his eyes wide with alarm as he stepped into the living room. “Dave?” he asked cautiously.

Dave wanted to say something, to make a crack at the poor sod gracing the screen. Instead he laughed, short and bitter.

Alan’s mouth was a thin, worried line as he marched over, picking up the remote and turning off the telly. Even though it was now silent, Dave couldn’t get the images out of his head. He’d seen them many times, of course, in the papers and tabloids and newsreels. But at the time he’d either been bombed out of his mind, or focused single-mindedly on recovery. The facility he’d stayed at had refused to allow any such images of him into the community room, so Dave had been protected with the grace of ignorance during treatment. But now? Dave was on his own, sitting in the living room of a man who didn’t love him back and who most likely didn’t trust him anymore.

“ _Dave._ ” Alan’s tone was sharp and urgent enough that Dave actually looked up at him. Alan seemed uncharacteristically worried and uncertain. “Like I said, it’s not you.”

“But it _was_ me,” Dave argued, because if there was one thing that recovery had taught him, it was that denial was of no use to anyone. “That was me, singing on that stage. It was me, and it’ll always be me.”

Alan looked down at his feet. It was only now that Dave noticed Alan was clutching a bag of espresso - Dave’s coffee, in fact. He must have been in the middle of putting away the groceries when he’d heard the music and dashed outside. “That’s not what I meant,” Alan said softly. “Okay, that might have been physically you, doing that. But it wasn’t the _you_ I know. It’s not the Dave I know.”

“Well, if that’s the bloke you want, then--” Dave let out another shaky laugh, lacing his fingers together because it felt like he would fly apart if he didn’t. “Maybe he ain’t coming back, y’know?”

That would have been enough to discourage anybody. But Alan could be as stubborn as a mule, the only idiot Dave knew crazy enough to park himself behind a console for 20 straight hours, chasing the sounds he could hear only in his own head. Sure enough, Alan was still standing there, clutching Dave’s espresso beans from Waitrose, his face set with grim determination.

“I know him,” Alan repeated, before his expression softened just a little bit. “I know you, okay? Give yourself time. You’re just 90 days out of treatment. It’s going to be one long, fucking uphill battle. But I know you can do it.”

If this were anyone else, Dave would have told them to go shove their pity up their arse. But he could hear the truth ringing in Alan’s words, and he knew pity was the very last thing Alan would give him. Alan did genuinely believe that he would be getting the old Dave back, the one who’d pulled all those pranks on Martin and Fletch with him, the one who’d been the first to accept him into the band.

“You really think so,” Dave said, more out of astonishment than anything else.

Alan rolled his eyes. “Don’t get me all mushy,” he warned Dave, but his grip was tight as he reached out and yanked Dave off the sofa into a much-needed hug. Dave shut his eyes, shamelessly stealing comfort from Alan’s arms in a way that he knew Alan had never intended at all.

“Daft git.” Alan rubbed the back of Dave’s neck. “Find me if you need me, all right?” He didn’t wait for an answer before pulling away and retreating into the kitchen. Dave watched him go, trying not to feel too bereft at the loss of Alan’s arms.  
  


***  
  


For the rest of the day, Dave could hear Alan on the phone, talking to various people: contractors, friends, his stepson Jason. Despite Dave’s presence, he knew Alan was mindful of the deadlines for his own projects - never mind that they were self-imposed. Not wanting to get in the way of Alan’s work, Dave collected his journal and his pack of cigarillos from his overnight bag, borrowing a pencil from Alan’s coffee table. Then he made his way out to the back porch so he could sit on the swing and enjoy the scenery.

Dave started off by what they’d taught him in treatment: writing down things he was grateful for, things he’d been tempted by, things he’d learned. Then he started sketching some of the plants in Alan’s overgrown garden, dancing in the breeze. Even though these plants were dwarfed by the much taller weeds, they were still flourishing in their own way. Dave thought about this for a while, then went back to add in something under the ‘Things I’ve Learnt’ column.

It started raining sometime in the late evening, a light fall shower that brought the temperature down a few degrees and made Dave retreat into his thoughts, enjoying the cool weather and the throaty burn of his cigarillo. Even in rehab, he’d always been listening to music, so it was a treat to sit here and listen to the rain pattering against the leaves instead. He added to his drawings a bit, imagining a pair of careful hands tending the plants. He gave them long, elegant fingers: a pianist’s hands.

The sound of the door swinging open and careful footsteps made Dave hurriedly shut his journal, looking up as Alan joined him on the swing with two mugs of tea, handing him one. “Better?” Alan asked, not quite meeting his gaze.

Dave accepted the tea. It was something potent with lemon. “I’m taking this swing with me when I leave,” he said, making Alan huff in laughter.

“I’ll buy you one,” Alan promised. “They’ve got some great ones at Toys ‘R’ Us.”

Chuckling, Dave kicked at Alan’s foot, pretending to wince when Alan kicked back. “So what’s for dinner?”

Alan lifted an eyebrow at him. “If it were up to me? Pasta. You? Chocolate, probably.”

“Why not both?” Dave sipped at his lemon tea, smiling as the rain was soon reduced to a mere drizzle. In the distance, the setting sun started to peek out from a break in the grey clouds.

The two of them watched the sunset in peaceful silence, until they finished their tea and Alan muttered something about starting dinner. He got up from the swing, hesitating beside Dave in a way that made Dave glance up at him questioningly. “Yeah, Al?”

Alan had his mouth open as if to say something, but at the last minute he shook his head dismissively. “Nothing. See you in a bit.”

Watching Alan shuffle back into the house, Dave reached for another cigarillo and lit it with a few experimental puffs, thinking about what Alan had been on the verge of saying. Heaving a quiet sigh, Dave watched the last of the sun dipping into the horizon. The sounds coming from the kitchen - pots clanging about, vegetables being chopped - were actually quite comforting, and Dave temporarily allowed himself the ridiculous fantasy of staying here forever, watching the sunset from Alan’s swing.


	3. Let's Get Away, Just for One Day

**1997 - Chichester, UK**

After a week had gone by, Dave still hadn't made any noises about leaving. Alan was secretly glad; he was beginning to really enjoy Dave's company again. They'd settled into a routine of sorts: breakfast together in the mornings, although Dave would only really have coffee and a cigarette. Then Alan would embark on the lengthy process of putting together all the elements of his studio while Dave would go for a run around the neighbourhood. This new fitness regime of Dave’s was admittedly a little surprising - but when Alan thought about it, he supposed it was only a logical turn of events. Dave had spent years used to burning off lots of energy on stage while touring, so it made sense that all the excess energy needed an outlet.

After his morning run, Dave would usually grab something to eat before starting in on the garden. At some point he’d taken it on as his personal pet project, and Alan was happy to hand over the reins to him. Dave seemed to take great joy in it, cheerfully wrangling with the weeds while singing along to the battered radio they’d unearthed somewhere from Alan’s boxes in the attic. Now the back porch was its new home, blasting evergreen rock hits as Dave worked. From the music library - which was also fast doubling as his office space - Alan kept the windows open so he could hear Dave crooning along to the likes of Led Zeppelin, the Doors and the Rolling Stones. It made Alan smile, glad to be responsible in some way for any avenue of happiness for Dave.

Of course, it wasn’t always sunshine and roses. There were times too when Dave retreated to his room, or to the back porch for hours on end, staring out into the West Sussex scenery with unseeing eyes, somewhere deep inside his own head. During these moments, Alan decided the best course of action was to leave Dave alone until he came to seek Alan out. Alan had been used to it on tour, when the usually gregarious Dave would sometimes withdraw from him and everyone else in a sudden bid for solitude. Others who didn’t know Dave well would assume he was brooding over problems at home, but Alan was well aware Dave had the tendency to be seduced by his own inner demons - the dark void inside him that could spread without warning, like drops of ink blooming in water.

Thankfully, Dave always seemed to come out of these moods sooner or later. He would either resume gardening, give Jack a phone call, or come to see what Alan was doing. As such, Alan was always pleased to show Dave his tentative sketches for the studio, his ideas and the contractors he’d shortlisted. Dave would listen and give his opinion here and there, alert and participative in a way Alan hadn’t seen in years, not since when they were recording Violator. It was so wonderful to have this Dave back that Alan found himself beaming at times for no reason at all, puzzling Dave to no end.

“Y’know, I was kidding about the dementia,” Dave complained one morning over breakfast, when Alan kept smiling apropos of nothing. “But maybe you should go get that check-up, Al. You’ve been grinning to yourself like a nutter.”

“I’m fine,” Alan assured him, before deciding the truth couldn’t hurt. “I’m just happy you’re here, that’s all.”

Dave stopped sipping his coffee, his expression vacillating between confusion and wariness. “Really?” he said, disbelief colouring his tone as though Alan’s admission was some kind of trap.

“Yeah, really.” Alan always felt uncomfortably vulnerable when confronted with earnestness, whether it was his own or someone else’s. He’d always preferred to disguise his true feelings with the veneer of humour or sarcasm, so that there was always a safe path of retreat if things went sideways. But he knew, deep down, that Dave needed to be surrounded by honesty during this difficult period of recovery. “I missed you a lot. It’s good to-- to have you back, y’know?”

Dave’s eyes were round with surprise, his face flushing red with embarrassed happiness. “Go on,” he muttered gruffly, tucking his hair behind his ear.

Alan arched an eyebrow at him. “What, you think I’d invite you to stay if I didn’t want you here? How fast do you think Fletch would be out on his arse if he turned up at my door?”

That at least loosened a laugh out of Dave. “Some things never change, eh?” he said, looking amused as he poured himself another cup. At least he seemed like he finally believed Alan.

Alan’s smile softened as he looked over at Dave, whose cheeks were still pink with reluctant pleasure. “No, they don’t.”  
  


***  
  


For a break in their routine - and to rouse Dave from the dark thoughts crowding his head - Alan suggested a visit to somewhere special to mark Dave’s second week in his house. “Got any swimming gear?” he asked a confused Dave one evening after dinner, when they were parked in front of the telly for Dave’s weekly dose of the Simpsons.

Dave arched a brow at him. “Do I look like I keep a Speedo shoved somewhere in my bag?”

Alan rolled his eyes. “I’m asking because I thought we could take a trip to the beach, you ingrate.”

At least Dave perked up at this. “Oh yeah, there’s one nearby, innit?”

Alan nodded. “West Wittering’s about a twenty minute drive from here. We’ll stop by town and get you a swimsuit before we go. And some sunblock too, I reckon.”

“Sounds grand, Al. Wait, shhh.” Dave’s attention was lost once more now that the adverts were over and the Simpsons had resumed, but Alan just shook his head forgivingly with a smile. It was understandable; Alan was just as bad whenever QPR were playing.

The next morning, they drove into town for their swimming gear. While Dave was trying to decide between a variety of increasingly revealing trunks, Alan snuck out to the art shop a few units down, placing an order for a list of items he could pick up another day. The shop assistant was immensely helpful, suggesting things that Alan hadn’t thought to include on his list. After he made payment, he hustled back to the sports shop just in time to bump into Dave stepping out with his new purchases. “Was wondering where you disappeared to.” Dave nudged him as they headed for Alan’s car.

“Didn’t think you needed me around to approve your choices in swimwear,” Alan said while Dave snorted. They went to pick up a few more things - some sandwiches, sunblock, a few books and a picnic mat - before they set off for West Wittering.

It was already a few weeks into the beginning of fall, but they were far south enough that they still got a decent amount of sunshine each day. If they’d been back in London, Alan knew they’d be dealing with a fair amount of rain and a slight chill already in the air. So they kept the top down, the radio blasting ‘Let’s Dance’ on their way to the beach as Dave hollered along at the top of his voice, making Alan laugh. Dave had his arms raised in the air, smiling at the wind in his face and the sunshine bearing down on both of them. He looked reckless, free.

Alan could more than understand. This was a simple happiness they’d both fought hard for and won, finally getting to bask in the promised light at the end of the tunnel. Dave kept shooting him happy, disbelieving grins too during the drive, like he was thinking the same thing.

It was obvious once they were nearing the coast, with the smell of salt and brine heavy in the air. Alan paid for the parking fee, then chose a spot further away from the mass of cars. Dave headed into a bathhouse to change first, while Alan picked out a lovely spot under an umbrella and settled down with his book and his Walkman. The water looked lovely, but Alan usually preferred to spend some time lazing about on the sand first, taking his time.

Once Dave emerged, he dumped his bag on their shared picnic mat, grinning at Alan before running to the waves to dive in immediately. It was so like him that Alan couldn’t help smiling, watching Dave’s lean, tattooed arms cut through the water in a neat backstroke before he went back to his book and his music.

When one side of his Cocteau Twins tape finished playing, Alan finally looked up from his book. Dave was floating on his back a short distance out from the shore, his eyes closed and his arms spread out, crucifix-style. Alan watched him for a while, remembering when they’d visited a beach in LA a decade ago and Dave had done the same thing, floating like this and leaving himself at the mercy of the tide. Dave always seemed to love skirting the edge of danger, seeing how far he could push before something pushed back. Alan wondered now if this new Dave still had this tendency for recklessness, or if rehab had finally instilled some sense of self-preservation in him, convinced him that he was worth saving.

Thankfully, Dave didn’t float too far away. He was already swimming back towards the shore by the time Alan was halfway through Side B and slathering sunblock on his arms. He watched as Dave waded out of the waves and started trudging towards dry sand, water dripping all over his body as he raked his wet hair back.

Alan knew he should stop staring, but he didn’t know why he couldn’t take his eyes off Dave walking towards him, his tattoos and wet skin gleaming in the sun, rivulets of seawater dripping down his chest and stomach and disappearing into the dark fabric of his swimming trunks, which had seemed normal when dry but were now indecently clinging to his hips when wet. It was only when Dave was in front of him that Alan finally registered Dave’s mouth was moving, and he hurriedly yanked his headphones off.

“Jesus, Al, are you deaf?” Dave sounded both amused and cross. “I asked if you were going to swim.”

“Um, yeah, I am, yeah.” Unsure why he was so flustered, Alan plucked at his t-shirt and yanked it off before shimmying out of his jeans - he already had his trunks underneath. “How’s the water?”

“Bit cold but quite lovely.” Dave reached down for a towel, quickly drying his body with it. Alan very deliberately did not look. “I’ll watch our things, you go ahead.”

“Should be safe, I reckon.” Alan squeezed a bit more sunblock into his hands, trying to get some on his shoulders before Dave let out a chuckle and took the bottle from him, swirling his finger to indicate that Alan should turn around, which he did.

Alan bit his lip as Dave’s strong and sure hands began slathering sunblock on his back and shoulders, quick and efficient. Alan could feel the cold metal of his rings, and he fought not to shiver as Dave’s hands moved up to the nape of his neck, massaging some cream on his skin. He’d always been sensitive there, and Dave somehow seemed to sense this, his touches slower and more deliberate now.

Alan almost jumped when he heard Dave’s voice just behind him, a little hoarser than usual. “Think you’re good, mate.”

“Cheers.” Alan knew he should wait for some time for the sunblock to absorb into his skin, but he didn’t know why he felt the need to just...put some distance between him and Dave, like he was afraid he might be the reckless one in this situation for once, and not Dave.  
  


***  
  


Aside from Alan’s rather strange revelations, it was a very lovely day spent at the beach. Dave had gotten them cold drinks from a beach hut nearby, then they’d eaten their sandwiches and talked and enjoyed the view and the sea breeze. Since it was a school day, their end of the beach was almost practically deserted. Dave talked about taking a peek at Keith Richards’ infamous estate and Alan mentioned wanting to head over to East Head so he could snap some photos of the sand dunes there.

They packed up sometime after lunch, grabbing a quick shower in the bath houses and changing before they headed back to the car and drove over to East Head. The late afternoon light afforded Alan a lot of creativity when framing his photos, and a bored Dave went to walk up and down the beach. During a short break in between taking pictures, Alan looked for Dave and found him some distance off, staring out into the water as though he were in search of something.

“What were you looking for?” Alan asked him later, once Dave had meandered back to his side. Alan was carefully packing away his lenses, hoping the photos he’d taken would come out beautifully. He was still a little rusty at times, but Alan had faith that his ability had stayed with him, much like he knew Dave’s voice hadn’t left his friend at all.

Dave smiled a little bashfully, staring down at his sandy feet. “Peace,” he said simply, the wind ruffling through his hair. Now Alan wished he hadn’t kept his lens; he felt the compulsion to snap Dave’s photo in this moment, with the wind buffeting his hair to the side, his eyes clear and a little too bright.

Alan didn’t think any answer he could give now would match the profound simplicity of Dave’s statement, so he merely nodded. Dave’s smile at him widened in response, as though he’d fully expected Alan to understand him. Giving each other a heartfelt pat on the back, the two of them began trudging through the sand dunes and making their way back to the car, both lost in their own thoughts.  
  


***  
  


They’d made it back to the house just before sunset, and Alan could feel the beginnings of sunburn stretching across his shoulders, like his skin was two sizes too small for him. He was the first out of the shower and on the swing, already with his usual glass of Shiraz and a bottle of orange San Pellegrino, waiting for Dave.

The sun was almost gone by the time he heard Dave emerging from the back door, cursing under his breath. “What’s wrong?” Alan was eyeing Dave, who had a towel slung around his neck. His hair was a frightful tangled mess, and Alan bit back his laughter as Dave muttered under his breath, brushing his hair aside before taking the bottle of sparkling water from Alan.

“My fuckin’ hair, that’s what. It was all that salt, I bet.” Dave sighed, mournfully fingering the ends of it. Alan forgot sometimes how vain Dave could be, but it was an understandable trait, given what they used to do for a living.

“You should get a haircut,” Alan told him nonchalantly, watching the last of the sun disappear behind darkening clouds. “You used to look really good in short hair, y’know.”

“I did?” Dave was eyeing him a little strangely now, and suddenly Alan felt like they were back at the beach again, him watching Dave wade out of the water like a Bond girl.

“Yeah,” Alan said a little hurriedly, sipping his wine. “We could look for a barber the next time we’re in town.”

Dave sat up suddenly, as though an idea had just occurred to him. “You could do it too, right?”

“I suppose.” Alan scrunched his face in uncertainty. Back when he’d been penniless, he was forced to learn the art of cutting his own hair, and he’d actually been quite decent at it too. It was something the rest of the band had made him do for them during long, boring rides on the tour bus, back when they were first starting out. The sudden memory of it left an ache in his throat; he couldn’t remember the last time the four of them had just messed around and laughed together like that. He couldn’t even remember the last time all four of them were in a room together.

He suddenly felt very, very glad to have Dave with him now.

“You’re not allowed to sue me if your haircut ends up looking like crap,” Alan warned him as he stood up, Dave giving a little cheer. Alan went to unearth the sharpest scissors in his kitchen cabinet, while Dave hunted around for a stool and a comb. They decided to do it in Alan’s bathroom, which had the bigger shower stall. Dave set down the stool right in the middle of the tiled floor, then sat obediently on the chair, giving Alan a broad smile.

Alan let out a long, slow breath. Then he picked up the scissors and comb.

Dave’s hair was still wet from his shower, so Alan didn’t see the need to dampen it again. Analysing Dave’s hair with a critical eye, Alan decided to snip away the tangled ends that were distressing Dave first. Now the length looked uneven and choppy, but Alan could feel the ability coming back to him much like his photography skills. He began snipping more and more confidently as locks of Dave’s hair fluttered to the floor.

Soon Dave’s hair was almost back to its old length, but Alan left an inch or two as a buffer, just so Dave could get a professional to finish the job if he so wished. Dave was quiet as a mouse, his eyes intently watching Alan work - they were full of trust and assurance. Dave was breathing slow and steady, not even flinching when Alan started snipping along his sideburns right at the edge of his ear.

“There you go,” Alan said, more pleased than he ought to be at the result of a simple haircut. He leaned down, his face directly in front of Dave’s so he could gauge for himself if the sides were even. Spotting some short hairs along the shell of his ear, Alan used his thumbs to brush them off, blowing a gust of air to get rid of the stubborn ones still clinging on.

Dave’s breath hitched, his eyes fluttering closed as he let out a soft exhale. His cheeks were pink again - the sunburn must have gotten him too. Once again Alan couldn’t tear away his gaze, observing the way the curve of Dave’s full lashes fanned down, a dark contrast against his skin. Alan felt his hands itching for something - his camera, maybe.

Today was really very odd. Alan couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Clearing his throat, Alan ran his fingers through Dave’s hair, roughly styling it the way Dave had used to, in the 80s. “Think you’re alright,” Alan said quietly. He couldn’t stop touching Dave’s hair though.

Dave’s eyes flew open again. The trust and mild assurance was gone, and Alan felt his throat turn dry when he saw how dark Dave’s gaze was, his eyes more pupil than iris.

“Thanks, Al.” Dave stood up a little unsteadily, shaking his head like a dog to get all the stray hair off. Both of them didn’t say anything as Alan washed the scissors and comb while Dave cleaned up as much hair as he could, dumping it in the little rubbish bin beside the sink. They didn’t look at each other as Alan went back to the kitchen to store the scissors and start dinner while Dave presumably went to give his hair a second wash - Alan could hear the shower running.

Dave came out later with his hair slicked back. Even with Alan’s novice haircut skills, Dave looked ten times better - dark and rakish and unfairly handsome. But he didn’t meet Alan’s gaze during dinner, and he didn’t join Alan on the sofa for their nightly session of making fun of whatever was on the telly at the moment.

As he retired to bed, Alan couldn’t help feeling troubled, like he’d done something wrong; he ended up staring at the ceiling until sleep overtook him. In his dreams, he and Dave were driving aimlessly by the sea with the top down, neither of them too concerned about the tsunami looming in the rear-view mirror.  
  


***  
  


**1987 - Los Angeles, USA**

Alan slammed down the whiskey glass on the bar with a little more force than necessary. It’d been hours since the phone call with Jeri, but he still felt like he’d just been freshly raked over the coals. She rarely screamed at him over the phone, but their argument had been a combination of many things: Alan’s exhaustion, Jeri’s eternal patience wearing thin, the timezone differences, Jason acting up at home and giving Jeri a hard time. It wasn’t the first time she’d brought up the topic of marriage, but it was something Alan preferred to discuss face-to-face, especially when he would be on the road for months at a time.

But apparently, Jeri had decided that Alan’s rare day off was the perfect time to bring up this old chestnut. He sighed, motioning to the bartender for another whiskey. The man’s eyebrows rose - it was only noon, after all - but he said nothing, obediently sloshing more amber liquid into Alan’s glass. Alan rewarded him with a hefty tip, which the bartender probably appreciated since Alan was the only customer in the hotel bar at this time of day. On the telly mounted behind the bar, there was an episode of Miami Vice that Alan vaguely remembered watching before in some Midwestern hotel they’d stayed in. Alan kept an eye on it in disinterest until he felt a familiar arm slide across his shoulders. He immediately relaxed once he caught the scent of Dave’s cologne.

“So here’s where you’re hiding.” Dave gave him a squeeze before climbing onto the bar stool next to his, signalling to the bartender for another of Alan’s whiskey. “Was looking for you earlier. You alright, Al?”

“Jeri,” Alan said, which made Dave cluck his tongue sympathetically.

“Two more, then,” Dave told the bartender, who wisely said nothing about Alan’s earlier drinks. Alan added to Dave’s own sizable tip for the bloke.

After the gig in San Fran last night, the band had two days off to enjoy Los Angeles’ finer amenities before their multiple gigs at the Forum. Alan knew that Franksy, Daryl, Kess and Fletch were going to Pasadena at some point for a site visit to the Rose Bowl, just to get some preliminary ideas on the scope and breadth of the project. But he didn’t think he’d be tagging along, and Dave hadn’t seemed especially keen either. Dave was more likely to be haunting the likes of Sunset Strip, quite often dragging Alan along with him. Alan liked bars and clubs as much as the next person, but he hadn’t liked some of the people Dave hung out with in LA. They had that hard, weathered look of heroin use about them, and smack was a drug Alan was in no hurry to try. He could only hope that Dave was smart enough to avoid that pit of snakes as well.

“Jesus.” Dave was now watching Miami Vice with rapt attention. “Did you see that? They just set three blokes on fire.”

Alan rolled his eyes. “I don’t understand American telly,” he complained, gesturing towards the screen where Don Johnson was mowing down some poor sod in an alley. “They lose their minds if you show a bra on screen. Then five minutes later, someone’s head gets blown off.”

Dave laughed as he patted Alan on the back. “Someone’s grumpy. C’mon then, I’ve got something that should cheer you up.”

When they emerged from the lobby, a valet drove up to them in a lovely little Porsche. “Not as nice as mine, but for a rental, it would do,” Dave said with a smirk, as Alan let out a long-suffering sigh and got into the car, putting on his seat-belt as Dave followed suit.

Alan didn’t know where Dave was taking them, and he found that he didn’t much care. He was tired on all fronts - mentally, emotionally, physically - and it felt good to be with Dave, who didn’t mind if Alan wasn’t always on his best behaviour. Dave turned on the radio, whooping in joy when he managed to tune in to a station playing Bowie.

“ _And if you say run, I’ll run with you,_ ” Dave sang, thumping the dashboard in time to the beat. This early on in a tour, Dave’s voice was always at his peak, a deep rich baritone that still had the ability to make Alan’s skin prickle with goosebumps. It was only in the middle of a tour that Dave’s voice would start to get scratchy and strained, even though it always managed to retain its loveliness. Fletch had always been on Dave to give up smoking once and for all, for the sake of his voice. But Alan knew that was as likely to happen as Martin agreeing to let Dave write a song or two on the next record.

Soon they were out of the snarl of downtown traffic and cruising along the glamorous roads of Santa Monica and Venice Beach. The coast was startlingly beautiful, the waves rolling in from very far away, as though someone had spread them out like jam. Alan took in the scenery, which did help to calm his frazzled nerves from his tumultuous morning. It was amazing, how Dave somehow seemed to know exactly what he needed even without Alan having to voice it.

Alan was still staring at the sea when he noticed Dave was pulling into a car park, turning off the engine. “C’mon Al, we’re going for a swim,” he announced, grinning wickedly as Alan gaped at him.

“In case you hadn’t noticed,” Alan said incredulously, gesturing towards his black shirt, jeans and leather jacket, “I’m not exactly dressed for swimsuit weather, Gahan. And is it even warm enough to swim?”

Dave waved a dismissive hand at him. “22 degrees is warm enough for a quick dip. And there’s tons of shops here that will sell you what you need. Besides, when was the last time you went to the beach?”

This was a good point. Alan knew the battle was lost when Dave waggled his eyebrows in that aggravatingly charming way he had. “If I get eaten by a shark, I’m telling Franksy it’s your fault,” he muttered, finally getting out of the car. Taking off his jacket, he stopped to toss it into the boot together with Dave’s.

Dave took Alan’s sunglasses out of his pocket and slid them on him. “Fine, if you somehow get attacked by a shark in bloody California, it’s on me, all right? Now quit whinging like an old geezer and let’s get you a Speedo.”

They made their way to the shops, playfully nudging each other before Dave stole his sunglasses and ran ahead cackling like a madman, making Alan yell out and laughingly give chase.

  
***  
  


**1997 - Chichester, UK**

Dave was glad that today was the day Alan was supposed to go up to London to meet all the contractors he’d shortlisted to build his home studio. Before he left in the morning, he had asked Dave if he’d wanted to tag along, but Dave knew the chances of them getting recognised increased tenfold in London, especially if they were seen together. So Dave had made some excuses about needing to get more work done in the garden. Alan had simply shrugged and not pressed the matter.

After Alan had left, Dave went on his daily run. He was beginning to like it a lot; it cleared his head in a way performing on stage never had. Although Dave was someone who easily got bored, the repetitive nature of running - putting one foot ahead of the other, one at a time - felt very much like what they’d taught him in recovery. He liked the simplicity of it, following the trail around Alan’s lovely neighbourhood that took him past a forest during the last stretch before turning back to Alan’s house. If he was lucky, he’d spot some squirrels, maybe some rare birds. Once he’d even come across a deer, its beady eyes resting on his before it bounded back into the trees.

A week into his stay, Alan had given him the spare keys and told him the security code, and Dave appreciated the implicit trust in Alan’s action, even if he felt completely undeserving of it. After that embarrassing display yesterday - both at the beach and during the haircut - Dave had been battling twin sensations of guilt and shame. Alan had been nice and trusting enough to let Dave stay in his bloody home, and Dave was repaying him by perving on him like some...pervert.

It was a good thing Alan was either pretending that everything was hunky dory, or genuinely none the wiser. Dave wiped the sweat off his face with a towel, fishing some cold water out of Alan’s fridge and gulping it down. He had half a mind to pour it down his pants instead; maybe that would stop his libido from making him leer at his poor innocent friend like he did yesterday.

Dave ate breakfast on the back porch, eyeing the garden critically to mark out the areas he wanted to work on today. He’d gotten rid of most of the weeds, and segregated the plants that he thought were able to be rescued. Then he went into the house and called his mum, who gave him so many tips and pointers that he had to ask her to hang on while he went to search for a pen and paper. He ended up digging out his journal, but he still couldn’t find a pencil.

He remembered Alan kept some stationery in the corner room, intending to turn it into an office or study someday. But when Dave tried the knob now, he was surprised to find it locked. It hadn’t been locked before, when Alan had given him a more in-depth tour during his first week. Dave had mentioned the corner room being his favourite because its large windows let in the most sun out of all the bedrooms. So it was quite a shock to find it was now inaccessible; he wondered what reasons Alan could have for wanting to keep him out.

 _Lots of reasons_ , a little insidious voice whispered in his head. Dave frowned, shaking his head as if to clear it. His mum was waiting for him on the phone.  
  


***  
  


Alan came back just before dinnertime, his car loaded with tons of goodies from London. Dave was almost done in the garden and was just thinking about starting supper, but it didn’t matter because Alan had bought Malaysian takeaway from Dave’s favourite place along Edgware Road. There was a lot of smaller equipment too that Alan had bought for the studio: Dave spotted boxes of cables, condenser mics and various other paraphernalia. The awkwardness of the previous evening seemed to have dissipated, Alan telling Dave excitedly about the contractor he’d eventually settled on and that the bloke would be coming down in a few days to view Alan’s basement and give him a proper estimate.

“I went to the Steinway showroom and ordered a baby grand too,” Alan told Dave as they reheated the boxes of takeaway in the microwave. The strong smell of the spices was making Dave’s stomach growl. Chichester, for all its charms, had a severe lack of Asian food. “It should be ready for delivery once the studio is ready.”

“How long do you think construction for the studio would take?” Dave asked, shamelessly helping himself to the prawn crackers that were supposed to be the garnish for one of the dishes.

Alan shrugged. “Maybe a month? Anyway, I’ll just wait and see what Nowak says. Seems like a good, honest Polish contractor. Flood highly recommended him.”

Dave just nodded. He wasn’t exactly surprised that Alan still stayed in close contact with Flood. He knew the two of them were thick as thieves from the day they’d met, but he couldn’t quite stave off the feeling of being replaced, especially when it was his fault in the first place for leaving Alan in the lurch. No wonder Alan didn’t quite trust him anymore. He continued nibbling on the crackers, listening to Alan talk about his studio and trying very hard not to think about the locked corner room.

They ate dinner on the back porch, sitting on the swing and looking up at the night sky, making up names for the vague constellations they could make out. Alan dragged a little side table out to the porch, so that they didn’t have to balance the hot takeaway containers on their lap. It was getting to be a part of their daily routine, the two of them sitting on their swing and rehashing the events of the day, or more often than not, just sitting in comfortable silence and enjoying the view.

Alan made an impressed noise, pointing towards the left half of the garden with his plastic fork. “Didn’t realise you’d made so much progress,” he said, his tone warm and appreciative.

“Yeah, my mum helped a lot,” Dave said, shoving more _rendang_ into his mouth. “She says hi, by the way. And if you still have that swan she gave you for Christmas.”

Dave laughed openly at Alan’s grimace. “Think it’s somewhere in the attic,” Alan said, giving Dave a shifty look.

“Yeah, right.” Dave nudged Alan’s thigh with his own. “Don’t worry, you’ll get another one this year.”

“Lucky me,” Alan said glumly, which made Dave chuckle all over again. He loved his mum, he really did, but her tastes and Alan’s were like chalk and cheese.

Now Alan was leaning forward, pointing towards the roughened patch that Dave had been working on this morning. It was a little hard to see in the darkness, but the light from the back porch helped some. “What’s that part?”

“It’s all the old plants that I think can be rescued,” Dave explained, finishing up the last of his dinner. “My mum told me what to do with them, so I’ll give it a try tomorrow.”

Alan arched an eyebrow at him. “Thought you’d gotten a whole bunch of new seeds.”

“Well, yeah.” Dave shrugged, putting aside the empty container and avoiding Alan’s gaze. "But just because something's not useful anymore, it doesn't mean you need to throw it out."

He could sense Alan looking at him now, the one he had in the studio sometimes where he was trying to work out a particularly difficult sample, or suss out if Martin disliked something he was doing with a song. Alan had always complained that Martin was the most difficult to read out of the four of them, which was actually really funny because Mart had once told Dave the exact same thing about Alan. It was something that had contributed to their downfall, probably. Once Dave and Fletch had taken themselves out of the picture, there were no more conduits between Martin and Alan anymore, like two live wires constantly damaging each other and eventually shorting each other out.

“It’s getting late,” Alan eventually said, even though it couldn’t be anywhere past nine. “I’ve got an early appointment in town tomorrow, I should start turning in.”

“You can head in first,” Dave offered. “I’ll clean up.”

Nodding, Alan got off the swing. Before he went in, he squeezed Dave on the shoulder without saying anything.

Listening to Alan’s fading footsteps, Dave took out a cigarillo and his lighter, putting his feet up on the swing. After lighting it with a few puffs, Dave leaned back and stared at the night sky. Alan’s hand had felt like a brand on his shoulder, the lingering warmth seeping into his skin like a tattoo.  
  


***  
  


Alan was already out of the house by the time Dave woke up around nine. He’d had a sleepless night, tossing and turning in bed while worried that he was already starting to wear out his welcome in Alan’s house. He needed to start making departure plans soon, probably after he had finished with Alan’s garden. Sadly, Dave didn’t think he would be able to stay long enough to witness the completion of Alan’s studio. That caused a pang in him that left him hollow and depressed.

Determined to get out of his dark mood, Dave embarked on his morning run as intended. It was a little cooler that day, and the trees hadn’t begun to change colour yet. He tried to remember which month the leaves would turn, a little stunned that he’d forgotten a simple fact that Jack definitely knew. He made up his mind to travel up to Bas after leaving Alan’s place, so he could spend a bit more time with Jack before flying back to New York. Dave had to check in with Big Mike, who was the most unlikely person one could imagine when describing a sponsor, but he was one of the main reasons Dave had succeeded at recovery this time.

Dave decided that there was no harm in looking for a travel agent the next time they went to town, so he could book a flight back to New York sometime in mid-October. That was plenty of time for him to finish Alan’s garden, and if Alan tired of him any earlier than that, he could always head back to Bas or even London.

Pouring with sweat as he made his way to the house, he saw that Alan’s car was already back in the opened garage. Whatever his appointment was in town, it must have been quick. Heading into the kitchen for some water, he paused when he heard Alan moving something around upstairs. Guessing that Alan might have bought more furniture, Dave went upstairs to shower. Alan was nowhere to be seen, but the door to the corner room was ajar. “Hey Al, I’m back!” Dave shouted as a warning. He thought he heard an answering yell from inside the room.

Tamping down his curiosity, Dave forced himself into the guest bath and took a much longer time than usual, long enough that Alan had time to do what he needed to do and get the door locked again. Dave used the time to give himself a long, luxurious shave. He hadn’t bothered much with his appearance during treatment, but after Alan’s haircut, he was a little surprised to find that he didn’t look as rough as he’d expected. In fact, after he’d washed the shaving foam off his face, he thought he’d look very much at home on stage again. He studied the angles of his face, the new crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

Once the thumping noises outside had quietened down, Dave went back to his room for a change of clothes. He was just done combing his hair when he heard a quiet knock on the door. Dave swung it open to find a rather smug-looking Alan standing in the doorway. “What’s happened?”

“Come on.” Alan beckoned for Dave to follow him, his mouth tugging up into a sly, secretive smile. Dave was very surprised when Alan led him to the corner room, opening the door with a flourish. “Like it?”

Dave was genuinely speechless when his gaze landed on the contents of the room. Right in the middle stood a gigantic wooden easel, bearing a blank canvas. Several more empty ones were perched in the corner of the room, ready for his use. There were tables too, upon which there was an endless array of art supplies: paints, brushes, a few different palettes. On the other side of the room, Alan had rigged up a stereo and a decent speaker system, aware that Dave liked to have music playing while he painted.

“Charlie--” Dave began, still unable to find any words that could convey the magnitude of what he felt. “This--”

Alan was lingering in the doorway, nibbling a little on his nails. “I didn’t know what paints or equipment you preferred to use, so the girl at the art shop made some recommendations,” he admitted, still looking uncertain. “The only thing I’m sure about is the stereo. But for the rest-- yeah, sorry if I got some bits wrong.”

Dave took a few steps towards the easel, raising a trembling hand as he caressed its wooden frame. “You really didn’t have to,” he said, his throat so tight that he was surprised he could speak.

“I wanted to.” Alan gestured around the room. “It’s yours, use it whenever you want, yeah?”

The only suitable response to this was for Dave to cross the room, grabbing a surprised Alan in a massive hug and clinging onto him tightly. He could feel more than hear Alan’s soft chuckles, his body warm against Dave. “Thank you, Charlie,” he whispered against Alan’s shoulder, closing his eyes so that Alan wouldn’t see them wet.

New York now felt like a long, long way off yet.  
  
  
  



	4. Strange Highs and Strange Lows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the very talented **pinksyndicate** did some really gorgeous fanart of the scene in the previous chapter [where Dave comes out of the water at the beach and Alan can’t take his eyes off him](https://pinksyndication.tumblr.com/post/629230893139181568/yeah-i-stayed-up-till-almost-7am-to-work-on-a). It is so pretty and adorable that I want to melt! THANK YOU so much for this!

**1997 - Chichester, UK**

The loud sound of glass shattering startled Alan from a light sleep, making him sit up in bed as he rubbed his eyes in confusion. It was still dark outside, and his bedside alarm clock showed him it was just past 3am. Deciding that he hadn’t imagined the noise, he swung his feet out of bed, put on his slippers and padded outside, glancing towards Dave’s room. Dave’s door was ajar, and the yellow glow from his lamp was the only light spilling out into the corridor.

Alan knocked hesitantly on the door. “Dave? Everything alright?” When he didn’t get an answer, Alan pushed open the door a bit more. His worry spiked when he spotted Dave kneeling on the floor, staring hopelessly at some shards of glass beside his bed, water rapidly pooling out around him.

“Sorry, Al.” Dave sounded flat, exhausted. “Broke one of your, um--”

“No, it’s fine.” Alan quickly nipped downstairs to grab a tea towel and a second glass of water from the kitchen. By the time he came upstairs, Dave seemed to have given up attempting to clear the mess, looking all kinds of pissed off with himself.

“Here.” Alan handed Dave the new glass, but all he got was a dazed stare in turn, as though he were handing Dave an alien object. Tamping down his worry, Alan used the tea towel to mop up the water and push aside the more dangerous pieces of glass first. Dave was watching him, still clutching onto the glass as he blinked at Alan. “You alright? And don’t tell me you are because you clearly aren’t.”

Dave had his mouth open, but shut it upon hearing what Alan said. He gave Alan a watery smile as he put the glass down. “I’ll be fine. Happens sometimes.”

“What does?” Alan was trying his level best to keep a calm expression, but his heart was racing. If Dave did the unthinkable and relapsed, Alan didn’t know what he’d do. Logically, he knew he would need to return his friend to the care of medical professionals. But he selfishly didn’t want to let Dave go, not after getting him back for only such a short time.

In response, Dave held up a little orange bottle. Alan relaxed when he saw the name of Dave’s American treatment facility printed on the label, followed by the words ‘SUBOXONE 8MG-2MG FILM’. “What’s this?” an uncomprehending Alan asked.

Dave was rubbing his face with a sigh. “Part of my post-recovery treatment,” he explained, his voice muffled through his hands. “I try not to depend on subs, but sometimes--”

“It’s like methadone?” Alan was familiar with some of the medication used to wean a patient off opiate addiction. Nat had complained to him about it often enough, especially whenever her brother relapsed on what seemed like a yearly basis.

“Something like that, yeah.” Dave nodded, seemingly relieved that Alan understood. “Methadone’s stronger, though.”

Alan stared at the little orange bottle Dave had entrusted to him. Inside it were not pills, but thin strips of film instead. Alan imagined that Dave would have to let these dissolve under his tongue. “You have to take these often?”

Dave winced. “I try not to. Don’t want to build an addiction to something else, yeah?” He was staring down at the broken, jagged pieces of glass, the tea towel soaking up the water. “Just-- it got bad tonight. That’s all.”

Alan was suddenly overcome with an immense wave of sadness for Dave; this was a war he’d always be fighting, even long after he’d left the battlefield behind. “Does it get bad often?” he asked quietly.

To his surprise, Dave flashed him a little - but real - smile. “Not since I got here, no.”

Alan was a little ashamed that this left him rather gratified and a bit pleased - to know that he helped Dave, in some way. He handed back the orange prescription bottle to Dave. “Tell me how I can help,” Alan said determinedly. He’d left Dave alone to his own devices so many years ago, cutting him loose like a wayward kite that had gotten tangled somewhere. Alan didn’t want to make the same mistakes again. “I want to help.”

Dave stared down at the bottle of suboxone. “Why would you want to help me?” There was a particular emphasis on the last word, and Alan didn’t miss how Dave’s voice was filled with vitriol and self-derision.

Alan got up off his knees, wincing at how sore they felt - age was admittedly catching up on him. He went over to tug Dave up, both of them going over to sit down on Dave’s bed. “Because you’re my mate,” Alan said simply, ignoring the complicated tangle of emotion behind that statement. Dave meant so much more to him than just a mere friend, but here in the wee hours of the morning, Alan thought at least one of them needed to keep a firm tether on his emotions. Dave didn’t need another mess on his hands. “You-- I mean, you’re brave. Really brave. And I want to help.”

Dave snorted in disdain. “ _Brave_? For what? Falling down flat on my face in front of millions of people? That's not being brave."

"No." Alan's voice was very, very quiet. "But getting up again is."

They both sat there in silence for a while, Alan staring at Dave and Dave staring at the little orange bottle in his hand.

“Okay,” Dave finally said. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, but at least the corner of his mouth was quirked up in the tiniest smile. “Okay, yeah. You’re right, I can do this.”

“Of course you can.” Alan bent down to pick up the abandoned new glass of water, handing it to Dave. “And I’ll be here to annoy you every step of the way.”

At least this surprised a laugh out of Dave. “What have I gotten myself into?” he muttered, as Alan gave him a gentle shove.  
  


***  
  


When Alan next opened his eyes, he found himself in a strange bed, staring at someone’s back. Confusion quickly gave way to clarity when the events of last night came back to him: Dave, hushed and confessional, showing Alan his orange prescription bottle with shaky hands and an unbelievable amount of trust. The last thing Alan had remembered was reassuring Dave to take his meds if he needed to, but Dave had decided against it in the end. They must have fallen asleep in Dave’s bed, Alan afraid to leave him alone in case he had another episode.

In the bright light of morning, the sombre mood of last night seemed even more distant, a thing of the past. Alan stirred in bed, trying to shift his legs when he realised one of his feet was wedged in-between Dave’s calves. Although he knew he should roll away and remove that errant foot, his body seemed strangely reluctant to comply.

Dave smelled...nice.

Maybe it’d been a long while since Alan slept with someone else - he’d split with Nat six months ago - but it didn’t explain his reaction to Dave’s presence like this. They’d shared beds before, at first out of necessity when the band had to share rooms and twin beds weren’t always available. Then later on, they’d sometimes crash in each other’s room after a long night out, for the sake of either convenience or pure laziness.

Alan had eyes, so of course he’d noticed that Dave was an attractive bloke. But Alan had always thought of himself as unequivocally straight, despite that one night in Berlin several years ago where things had gotten a bit weird between him and Dave. They’d never addressed it during the long years of their friendship, so Alan had doubted himself a fair bit, wondering if it’d all just been wishful thinking on his end.

On the other hand, Dave had always been the most open about sex, out of the four of them. While Martin tended to draw allegories between sex and religion, Dave had always treated it as an expression of joy and life, and he’d always disdained homophobia and labels on people’s sexuality. Over the years when they’d visited gay clubs, Alan hadn’t missed the way Dave would sometimes chat a little too closely with some bloke or other, dancing and laughing together before they’d disappear for a long while. Alan hadn’t thought it was his business to ever say anything, and he also hadn’t mentioned how he’d felt abandoned on such occasions. It had seemed silly, childish on his part.

Dave was shifting in bed now, reminding Alan that their legs were still sort of tangled together and he was almost pressed up against Dave’s back. But it was too late to move away as Dave rolled over onto his other side, so that he was now facing Alan. His eyes fluttered open, green and warm in the morning light.

“Charlie?” The haziness in Dave’s sleepy eyes sharpened into alertness. “Wh- wait, is this a dream?”

Alan frowned at him. “What?”

“What?”

They stared at each other for a good minute before Dave suddenly burst out laughing, rubbing his face as Alan found himself grinning at him. “You’re really useless without coffee, aren’t you?” he teased Dave, who shoved at him before rolling out of bed.

Breakfast was next, although Dave didn’t go for his usual run. Instead he sat by the dining room windows with one propped open, staring at the scenery while smoking pensively. Alan kept half an eye on him as he cleared the table and did the washing up for the breakfast dishes. After last night - and waking up in bed together this morning - he felt oddly shy around Dave, like he had to think twice before saying or doing something. It wasn’t really anything Dave was doing - it was more Alan himself, second-guessing every single one of his words or actions.

They decided to make a quick trip to town to stock up on their supplies at Waitrose. Afterwards, when Dave told Alan he was nipping into the art store to pick up a few pencils and brushes, Alan couldn’t stop smiling like an idiot. After last night’s debacle, Alan wanted Dave to think of his house as a safe place, a retreat from prying eyes and prying questions. Alan had deliberately kept a lid on mentioning drugs for as long as humanly possible, both of them skirting around the issue with neutral words like ‘treatment’ and ‘recovery’. But yesterday night, they’d both been unable to stop the pot from boiling over. Alan couldn’t stop thinking about the way a white-faced Dave had sat on the bed, staring at the little orange bottle in his hands.

After stocking up on what they needed to, Dave tried to persuade Alan to stop in at the record shop. “Come on Al, I need to get some CDs for the art room,” Dave wheedled, which made Alan sigh as they both got into the car. “We’ll be in and out in five minutes, I swear.”

“I just hope that Ollie bloke’s not working there,” Alan muttered, backing out of the parking spot. Despite his reservations, he turned left to head towards the high street.

Dave nudged him. “He was harmless, honestly. Just a bit excited about seeing us, is all.”

“What if he’s the type of fan who keeps shrines with doll’s heads and clippings of our hair?” Alan retorted, as Dave laughed loudly.

“Fine, I promise we’ll leave immediately if he pulls out a bag of Fletch’s hair.” Dave was grinning as the car came to a stop outside the Our Price record store. He seemed almost back to being his normal self, so Alan sighed and resigned himself to going along with whatever Dave wanted for now, following him into the shop.

The record store was more crowded than it was during their last visit, although Ollie wasn’t at the counter. Instead it was a heavily tattooed bloke who only greeted them with a surly nod, so Alan allowed himself to relax. He browsed through the new releases, while Dave hit every corner of the store like a pinball, picking CDs from all sorts of genres. Alan hoped he was building up a soundtrack so he could start painting again.

They ran into Ollie on their way out as he was dragging in some heavy box. He almost tripped over his own two feet when he saw them. “Fuck-- erm, I mean, hello,” he said, flashing them an overbright grin.

“Alright mate?” Dave said jovially, while Alan smiled at Ollie. Given that Alan’s home wasn’t swarmed by overenthusiastic fans yet, Ollie must have kept his word.

As they made their way to the car and threw their purchases into the back seat, Dave jabbed a thumb in Ollie’s direction, looking unbearably smug. “See? Told you I was right about that bloke.”

“Sure, you say that now,” Alan said dryly. “Don’t come complaining to me when he brings all his stalker friends to watch you gardening.”

However, Dave didn’t answer. His attention seemed to be elsewhere; he was frowning as he tilted his head towards the car. “Did you hear that?”

Alan’s hand stilled on the door handle as he too listened closely. “Hear what?”

Dave pressed a finger against his lips. Alan leaned against the car door, his ears pricked for any sort of unusual noise. He heard it at the same time Dave perked up, pointing at somewhere below the car. There was a high-pitched mewing, soft and plaintive.

“Wait!” Dave bent down, peering under the car until Alan heard him cooing in a kind voice: “Oh hello there, little fella.”

Alan came over to Dave’s side, watching as Dave scooped up something from below the car and emerged with a small, startled-looking grey tabby. He - or she - was pawing at Dave’s chest, as if unsure whether he wanted to be rescued or released. “Oh you’re fine, you’re fine,” Dave murmured, scratching the cat behind its ears.

“Has it got a collar?” Alan couldn’t see one, and it was confirmed when Dave checked, shaking his head no. “It’s a stray, then.”

“She looks hungry,” Dave said, pleased when the tabby ceased fighting him and remained still in his arms. “We should give her some food.”

Alan could never say no to cats; this was evident in the number of strays he’d taken in over the years, much to Jeri’s detriment because she’d been the one to take care of them whenever he was on the road. It had been a long while now since he’d owned one. “We can take her home for a bit,” Alan relented, as Dave beamed at him. “C’mon then, let’s go back to Waitrose for some cat food.”

  
***  
  


The cat indeed turned out to be a ‘her’, and from day one, she latched onto Dave like a starry-eyed groupie. She followed him out into the garden, snoozing in a patch of shade while Dave toiled in the sun, and she sat in the art studio with him while he painted, her ears pointing forward in interest as Dave blasted Jane’s Addiction and Chopin and the mournful baritone of Johnny Cash. Sometimes she would deign to sit at Alan’s feet during breakfast, but she would vanish the moment Dave left for his morning run.

She would join them on the back porch too whenever they sat on the swing to have a drink and watch the sunset. After a week had gone by and it was clear that no one at the local RSPCA had reported a missing cat, they started talking about names.

“What about Fluffington?” Dave suggested, eyeing the cat who was laying at their feet and ignoring both of them on the swing. “Always wanted a cat with ‘Fluff’ in its name.”

Alan made a doubtful face. “Dunno, she doesn’t have that much fur to begin with.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Dave took a swig of his San Pellegrino, deep in thought.

Then an idea occurred to Alan, which made him burst out laughing. “What is it?” Dave asked as he sat up, interested.

“She’s got stripes, right?” Alan gestured towards her grey coat. “Then what about ‘Striped’?”

Dave’s mouth dropped open, staring at Alan in utter admiration before he dissolved in laughter, making the swing shake with his movements. “Fuck, that’s brilliant, Al.”

Alan sipped his wine, hiding his pleased smile behind his glass. In front of them, the sun slowly sank down into the horizon, Striped’s grey tail swishing about in contentment.

***

**  
1984 - West Berlin, Germany**

The best thing about Berlin was undoubtedly the nightlife. Alan and the rest of the lads had waxed lyrical about it in interviews before, and for good reason. After a long and gruelling day at Hansa, which would normally end only in the wee hours of the morning, there were tons of places to go for a pint even at 3am on a Wednesday. They all had their favourite spots, of course, and they’d take turns to patronise Dave’s favourite club, or Fletch’s bar of choice. But somehow they’d all agreed that the gay bars and clubs were at the top of the list for everyone’s haunts. Martin liked Dschungel, while Alan and Dave preferred Corelles for its atmosphere and strong drinks.

“Let’s go to Corelles then,” Dave pleaded as everyone shuffled out of Studio Two. “The bloke at the door likes me, he’ll let us in for free.”

“You’re such a tart, Gahan,” Alan said as everyone laughed. “Using your masculine wiles to get free entry, honestly.”

Dave himself was chortling good-naturedly as he slung an arm companionably across Alan’s shoulders. “Since you’re immune to my masculine wiles, I might as well employ them elsewhere, yeah?”

“Please stop flirting,” Fletch begged from behind them. “I’m trying to keep my dinner down.”

“All you eat here is Toast Hawaii,” Martin chided him. “Anyone would have trouble keeping that down.”

They left the Hansa building in good cheer, squabbling and joking and hanging onto one another as they hunted for a cab. Gareth had begged off for the night, so they only needed one taxi, Fletch nabbing the passenger seat by virtue of his height while the rest of them squeezed into the back seat. Dave was squashed in the middle, on Alan’s left side, talking excitedly and rapidly enough that Alan suspected he was already on something.

The queue outside Correlles wasn’t as long as it might have been on the weekends, but there were still enough people that meant they might be in for a good wait. To Alan’s surprise, the security bloke at the door really did remember Dave, smiling at him and gesturing for all of them to skip the queue.

“Bloody hell.” Fletch sounded suitably chuffed as he got his hand stamped. “You weren’t joking about your so-called ‘masculine wiles’, eh?”

“Told you so.” Dave shot Fletch a mischievous grin, before turning to Alan and dropping him a flirtatious wink. Alan made a kissy face back at him, which made Dave laugh out loud.

Despite the late hour on a weekday, the club had a decent crowd. The bar was busy enough that Alan had to wait for a good long moment before he managed to get in his orders. It was his turn to buy the first round, and he was itching to get drunk and hit the dance floor. The music booming through the club had a good beat, and Alan found himself already tapping his feet.

“Hey, Al.” It was Dave, his breath warm against Alan’s ear. “Need help with the drinks?”

Alan was used to Dave standing close to him - personal space seemed to be an alien concept to Dave. But tonight, it seemed that Dave was a little more handsy with him, standing a few inches closer than usual. “Nah, just waiting.”

Back at the table, they drank, danced, then played some kind of drinking game that ended with Alan having to down four shots of vodka in a row while Dave kept laughing beside him, making it hard to ignore the warmth of his body against Alan’s. By this time of night, Dave was already usually on the prowl, chatting up someone and buying them a drink before he’d disappear for the night. But here he was, red-faced and giggly as he kept sloshing more vodka into Alan’s shot glasses despite his complaints. Alan was the best out of the group for holding his liquor, but any more of Martin’s asinine game and he’d be well and truly hammered.

At some point, Martin took off to join the people on the dance floor, and Fletch quickly followed him to ensure that the good denizens of Corelles wouldn’t get a free show. Alan was blinking down at the empty glasses on their table. Although there was a lot more space at the booth since Mart and Fletch were gone, Dave hadn’t moved an inch away from him.

“My head’s going to hate me in the morning.” Alan rubbed his temples before turning to glance over at Dave’s damage: two empty pint glasses and an equal number of shot glasses, which was actually quite tame for Dave’s standards. “Oi, did you cheat? You barely drank, you arsehole.”

Dave cleared his throat, his eyes flitting between Alan’s eyes and mouth. “Al, there’s something I want to ask you.”

Despite all the alcohol and adrenaline flooding his system, there was a warning going off in Alan’s brain, signalling to him that this was something that needed his full attention. He sat up, a little confused as he turned to face Dave, trying his best to put on a serious expression to show that he was listening. “Yeah, what is it?”

For a long moment, Dave didn’t say anything, the music booming above their heads. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, seemingly battling within himself whether to just go ahead and ask what he wanted to ask. At this point, Alan was dying of curiosity too. It felt like the energy between him and Dave had been ramping up throughout the whole day, ratcheting higher and higher until they were here in this booth, sitting much closer than they needed to - the long, lean press of Dave’s body against his was a maddening distraction.

“Have you ever--” Here, Dave’s cheeks turned pink as he bit his lip. Alan blamed the alcohol for the following errant thought: _he’s so bloody pretty_. “I mean, I know we were joking about masculine wiles earlier--”

“Were we?” Alan couldn’t even remember what smartarse remark he had made.

“Yeah, I mean.” Dave let out a shaky laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck, forget it, what the fuck am I even doing?”

“I don’t understand.” Alan felt like he’d missed something important here, his heart hammering in his chest. He barely cared about offending other people, but he _did_ care about offending Dave. “Did I say something?”

Dave shook his head vehemently. “No, don’t worry, mate. It’s all me.” He sounded bitter now, biting out his words like he was hating himself for it. “Just a passing thought I had.”

Alan always knew whenever Dave was lying to him. Even with all the vodka he’d ingested at this hour of the night after a long day, his senses were pinging all over the place that something very significant had just passed him by. “You sure?” Alan asked insistently, draping his arm across Dave’s shoulder so he could rub the nape of Dave’s neck. He could feel all the tension coiled in his muscles there, like a handful of tightly wound springs.

Dave turned to him again, his gaze dropping to Alan’s mouth. “Charlie--”

“Have you lot seen Mart?” a flustered Fletch demanded, skidding by their booth. “He got away from me five minutes ago.”

Alan took a deep breath, staring at Fletch while Dave rubbed his face in frustration. “Er no, we haven’t seen him,” he said slowly, trying to process what the hell had just happened.

“C’mon, I’ll help you look for him,” Dave told Fletch, who nodded thankfully. Before they left, Dave shot Alan the oddest, saddest smile over his shoulder. Alan stared after him, watching as the two of them disappeared into the crowd on the dance floor.

***

**  
1997 - Chichester, UK**

The contractor arrived on a Tuesday morning, a taciturn Polish bloke of few words who spent the whole day in Alan’s basement, taking measurements and photographs as Alan explained in detail what he had planned. Dave only interrupted now and then out of curiosity, bringing them both cold bottles of Perrier which they gratefully accepted. At the end of the day, Nowak told Alan he would shortly fax over his finished blueprints and a proper quotation. If all went well, Nowak would shortly be back with his crew to get started on Alan’s studio.

After some negotiations over the final cost, Alan finally gave them the green light to start work. Dave tried to stay out of the way, either working in the garden or finishing up one of the paintings he’d started on, Striped usually sprawled out by his side. Alan’s garden was coming along nicely, the rescued plants taking well to Dave’s loving care while the seeds he’d planted were finally beginning to sprout in the absence of weeds. If Alan managed to sustain the plants after Dave was gone, he might even have tomatoes before winter arrived.

His paintings were coming along very nicely as well. Dave still preferred sketching in his journal above all else, perched on the swing and staring out at the Sussex scenery, but it was admittedly more fulfilling to watch a painting come to life, stewarding the process of transferring it from his head straight onto the canvas. Right now he was working on a portrait of Keith Richards, an ode to the day he’d spent at West Wittering with Alan. They’d managed to find Keith Richards’ estate, and Alan had snapped a picture of Dave posing outside the gate before they were chased off by the caretaker. Alan had given him the photo, and Dave had tacked it onto the wall of the art studio. It’d been the last day he’d had long hair, and he could still remember Alan’s careful hands trimming it back to its usual length, turning him back to his old self again.

It had been extremely painful, showing Alan the bottle of suboxone and letting Alan see him in such a vulnerable state. Dave would have refused to be embarrassed and ashamed around anyone else, but this was Alan. Alan was as much his weak point as was the orange bottle in Dave’s overnight bag. Every time he tried to tell himself that Alan didn’t feel the same way about him, the tosser had to go and do something heartrendingly touching like building Dave his own art studio, letting him adopt Striped or even climbing into bed with him, just to keep watch over him.

When Dave had woken up to find Alan beside him that morning, he’d mistaken it for one of his dreams. It was something he was used to, as he cycled through them periodically like some love-struck teenager; his dreams were always a variation of a different outcome in Berlin so many years ago, one where he had been just a touch braver or ballsier.  
  


***  
  


The house was a lot noisier now, with lots of blokes on Nowak’s crew traipsing in and out with their tools and materials and equipment for the basement studio. Dave was actually selfishly glad that the garden was situated at the back of the house, because he didn’t think he could watch his precious flowers and plants get trampled without getting into a brawl with one of the workmen. His temper was a lot better these days, as Dave no longer had the inclination to go pick fights with bigger and tougher blokes just because he could, but that didn’t mean he still didn’t get angry from time to time.

He’d flown off the handle several times during therapy with Dr McConnell, his doctor at the treatment facility in New York, because she’d had a very bland and plain way of laying out all his personal foibles like playing cards. Back then he’d thought she was doing it just to get a rise out of him - he hadn’t spoken much during his first few weeks of treatment, too wracked by the severe agony of withdrawal. But later on, when he’d started responding to treatment, he’d realised that she was doing something no one had done with him for years: being honest with him.

The last person to do that, all those years ago, was Alan.

Being here in Alan’s house, sleeping in Alan’s guest bed and eating Alan’s food and feeding his cat, Dave felt like the worst of conmen. He hadn’t been entirely honest with Alan about why he was here, and he’d been half-expecting to be politely turned away, to be endured for the short duration of a meal before Alan showed him the way to the nearest Premier Inn. Which was why he had only really packed for a few days at the most, mentally preparing himself to head onwards to his next destination, which was Daryl and his family in London. Dave hadn’t expected Alan’s warm and sincere invitation to stay, and now his intent to visit Daryl felt like a memory he’d had in a dream.

No, he was happy here. Alan wanted him here. Even Striped wanted him here. Dave felt it was within reason for him to stay for a few more weeks as planned before he headed back to Bas, then New York. He’d be able to leave Alan a few decent paintings, a well-fed cat and a flourishing garden rescued from the negligence of its past owners.

“Hey.” Alan poked his head out of the back door, grinning at Dave who was sitting on the swing and sketching. “Nowak and his team finished the soundproofing, you have to come see this.”

Putting aside his journal, Dave followed Alan down to the basement. Alan had intended to install a red ‘Recording in Session’ sign above the door, but it wasn’t in place yet; Nowak’s electrician was still in the midst of wiring the whole sublevel. Pushing open the door, Dave broke into a smile as he laid eyes on all the acoustic panels lining the walls. They were very similar to the ones that graced the walls of Hansa’s studios, and it brought back a fierce, nostalgic longing welling up in Dave’s chest. “What do you think?” Alan asked, stroking one of the panels with a pleased smile.

“It’s bloody brilliant, Al.” Back during Dave’s first few days in the house, the basement had just looked like a basement, despite Alan conveying all his grand plans to Dave. It was only now that Dave could start to see Alan’s vision slowly coming to life, the carcass of the recording studio already beginning to take shape in the centre of the room.

“So the piano would go here--” Alan pointed towards a large rectangle drawn on the floor in chalk, “And the drum set would go in the corner there.” Here, Alan indicated another crudely drawn rectangle near the demarcation of the studio. “Control panel’s here, of course, where all the wiring is.”

Dave nodded in awe, before squinting at a smaller rectangular outline drawn on the wall, right behind the control panel. “What’s that for?”

To his surprise, Alan’s cheeks turned a little pink. “Asked Nowak to avoid putting anything there so I can hang a painting if I wanted.”

Dave frowned at him. “Whose?”

“Yours, of course.” Alan smiled broadly at him. “So you’d better get to work, Picasso.”

Now it was Dave whose cheeks felt rather warm. He didn’t know how he felt about Alan wanting a part of Dave residing in a place where he obviously meant to spend most of his waking hours. Unsure what to say without sounding like an emotional twat, Dave felt humour was the safest option. “Just for that, I’m going to paint you something monstrously ugly.”

Alan made a face as he walked with Dave up the stairs. “Please don’t give me a painting of Fletch.”

Dave couldn’t help laughing as he gently shoved at Alan, who shoved back with a grin before they went to start dinner together. He let Alan take over the conversation as they sliced bread and made a vegetable stew, smiling to himself as he finally came up with an idea for the painting Alan meant to hang in the studio.  
  
  
  



	5. Lift Up the Receiver, I'll Make You a Believer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I have to thank three extremely talented and wonderful artists who all did a ‘family portrait’ of Dave, Alan and Striped. I’m beyond moved by all their beautiful artwork.
> 
>   * **pinksyndicate** started the ball rolling with their immensely cute, beautiful artwork of [Dave, Alan and another version of Striped!](https://pinksyndication.tumblr.com/post/630014014690344960)
>   * **what_could_have_been** did her own beautiful, extremely detailed version of [Dave, Alan and Striped on their swing](https://what-could-have-been.tumblr.com/post/630345695323389952)
>   * and **saphiccan** drew this intensely gorgeous artwork of [Dave cuddling Striped](https://youknowhowharditisforme.tumblr.com/post/630779593063792640/thank-you-saphiccan-artwork-update-for-home) (meant to be viewed as Alan taking a polaroid of the two of them)
> I also have to thank the equally wonderful [Olissentery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Olissentery/pseuds/Olissentery) for their hard work in translating Home into Russian, which is [now available here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/9877966)!  
>  


**1997 - Chichester, UK**

After a week of intensive work, Nowak and his men were now actually ahead of schedule, having completed the bulk of the studio’s construction. It was now time for the various equipment and instruments to be delivered and installed, which Alan happily made arrangements for. The Steinway staff were the first to arrive on a Tuesday morning, setting up the grand piano in the studio with precise, deliberate care befitting a Rolls Royce. This was followed shortly by the piano tuner, a tiny bloke with bushy, forbidding grey eyebrows that gave him a stern countenance. He spent the rest of the day tuning Alan’s piano, his massive eyebrows knitting together in disapproval if Alan so much as breathed near the piano. Once the tuner was done, he warned Alan before leaving that he would need to let the piano’s strings ‘rest’ for 24 hours before Alan could even think about touching it.

Which was a shame, as Alan’s fingers were already itching to test out the sleek black and ivory keys. Nonetheless, he knew the warning wasn’t without merit.

Dave whistled when he descended into the basement with two bottles of water, his gaze landing on the sleek new piano. Alan had opted for it to be placed right in the middle of the studio. “Very fancy, mate,” he said, handing one bottle over to Alan. “Looks like it costs more than both our cars, yeah?”

Taking a sip of water, Alan shot him a wry smile. “It isn’t made out of diamonds, you know.”

Dave laughed. “Quite a way to propose to someone, innit? Giving them a diamond piano and all that.”

Alan’s smile froze on his face. He knew Dave had just been making a harmless joke, but it still didn’t stem the torrent of memories flooding back to him. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way Nat had cried when she’d said yes to his proposal years ago. And how she’d cried again - for different reasons, much later - when she’d given the ring back.

Dave must have sensed something was off, his own bright smile fading into concern. “Al? Did I say something?” he asked hesitantly, before his eyes widened with realisation. “Fuck-- is it about Natalia?”

Not wanting to lie to Dave or make him feel any worse, Alan merely gave him a tight nod. Even though Dave had been staying with him for almost a month now, Alan still hadn’t told him the whole sordid story with Nat and why they’d broken up. He didn’t want Dave to blame himself, even though Alan and Nat had other underlying problems that had superseded their efforts to try and make it work.

“C’mon, why don’t you show me your progress with the garden?” Alan said lightly, forcing himself to shake off the ghosts of his past.

He could sense Dave studying him for a moment with a careful hesitance that spoke volumes about how much he must have gone through over the past few years. The Dave that Alan was familiar with - the younger Dave - always, always spoke his mind, brash and honest and heartfelt even when it rubbed some people the wrong way. But Alan could see this new Dave was more thoughtful, often speaking with an awareness that some of his words might have jagged edges. This Dave, Alan sensed, harboured a healthy fear of hurting his loved ones again.

“You should see the tomato plants,” Dave finally said, and all the tension left Alan’s shoulders at once, letting him breathe again. “Didn’t think they’d be such hardy little buggers.”

A wave of affection washed over Alan, leaving him grateful for Dave’s consideration and mercy. He glanced over at Dave, who was making a show of admiring the Steinway and pointedly not looking at Alan. Given that they’d both seen hundreds of pianos over the years and this was nothing new to Dave, it must be his attempt to let Alan collect himself.

“Give me a tour, then.” Alan smiled at him, letting a hand settle on Dave’s back, squarely in the middle of his tattooed wings. “Gotta make sure you’re earning your keep, right?”

Laughing, Dave shook his head in amusement. “You calling me a freeloader, Al?”

“If the leather jacket fits.” Alan grinned at him as they made their way out of the dark studio and into the sunshine again, Dave chuckling right beside him.  
  


***  
  


It was a rare day that the house was empty for once, Nowak and his men taking a day off while there were also no deliveries or servicemen scheduled for appointments. Alan could hear the radio blasting on the back porch, which meant Dave was working in the garden. Decidedly sick of the studio, Alan headed for the music library, putting on some Miles Davis while he sorted out the bills and various invoices for the studio and the sum of its parts.

Alan was frowning down at the invoice for some monitor speakers when he heard the phone ringing through the house. He hadn't bought another phone for the outlet in the master bedroom yet, so they'd been making do with the cordless unit in the living room for now. He jogged out of the music library and made his way downstairs, picking up on its seventh ring. "Hello?"

"Hey, is this Alan?" It was Kess, laid back and pleasant as ever.

"Yeah, it's me." Alan couldn't help smiling. Despite everything that had gone down over the years, Kess had taken particular care to protect Alan's interests when he'd left the band, and Alan immensely appreciated his professionalism. "How are you, mate?"

"Ah you know, same old, same old." It was good to hear Kess' familiar throaty chuckle. "How's country life treating ya?"

"The sheep have taken over the farm, send help," Alan said, as Kess laughed. "But other than that, life's good."

"Great, great, I'm glad." Alan could hear Kess clearing his throat, which was his tell whenever he was changing gears and shifting into business mode. "Hey man, listen. Me and Dan were talkin’, we're kinda thinking of releasing a greatest hits compilation type deal, y'know?”

Alan had been expecting this for a while. “Yeah sure, go on.”

Kess explained that it would be a dual-CD album at least, given the number of hits they’d racked up over the years. After Martin's royalties, the money would be split four ways, as usual; Alan wasn’t too happy about that, but he’d already given up on trying to ask for fairer compensation years ago. There would also be a video compilation as well, with a heavier emphasis on Anton’s work. “As long as you burn all remaining copies of ‘But Not Tonight’, I’m in,” Alan said dryly, which elicited a hearty laugh from Kess.

“At least that’s one thing all four of you can agree on,” Kess muttered with a sigh. Alan chose not to respond to that.

Kess went on to explain some of the finer details and said he’d send Alan the paperwork once everyone was in agreement. “There’s something else too,” Kess added. “The BBC wants to do an in-depth interview, plus a documentary type thing on you guys. It won’t be so soon, because they’re busy with all the tributes to Diana now. So we’re looking at maybe the end of the year. Whaddya think?”

It was admittedly tempting to be able to set the record straight and tell his side of the story, especially after some of the things Fletch had said about Alan when he’d left the band. But Alan quickly realised that he wouldn’t be their prime focus. The spotlight was most definitely going to be on Dave and his past drug use, and Alan didn’t think he could do that to Dave. “No,” he said firmly.

Kess let out a huff of surprise over the phone. “Just-- no? We’re not gonna discuss it? I mean, it’s the Beeb, man.”

“Not interested.”

“Are you sure?” Kess sounded very reluctant to just drop the matter like that. “I mean, Mart and Andy already said yes. Hell, even Vince agreed, so--”

“It doesn’t matter,” Alan said. “Even if Dave says yes, my answer is still no.”

“Uh, okay,” Kess said a little awkwardly. “Anyway, speaking of Dave, I know it’s a long shot, but-- any idea how I can get hold of him? I’ve been calling that sonofabitch at both his apartments in NYC and LA, but he ain’t returning my calls. I know he mentioned wanting to visit you a few weeks ago, so I thought--”

“Yeah, he’s still here,” Alan said. “I’ll go get him now?”

There was a stunned silence on Kess’s end of the line. “Wait, what?”

“Dave’s staying with me,” Alan explained, trying not to grin at Kess’s obvious shock.

“Uh--” Alan could imagine Kess frowning mightily in his office, his bushy moustache bristling in confusion. “Are you joking? Cos’ I can’t tell if this is an Alan Wilder Sarcasm special or something.”

Alan rolled his eyes. “No, I’m not joking. Hang on.” Tucking the cordless phone under his arm, he made his way to the back door and stuck his head out. Dave was in the middle of digging something in the garden, while Striped was watching him with casual disinterest from where she was perched on the swing. “Dave! Phone!” Alan called out, waving him over.

Dave squinted at Alan, pointing at himself: _for me?_ Alan nodded, holding up the cordless phone in response. Shrugging, Dave threw down the shovel and swiped a hand over his face, which was glistening with sweat. His tank top and denim cut-offs were drenched too, and Alan tried very hard not to notice that Dave’s top was almost see-through - his tattoos and even his nipples were clearly visible. Dave was striding towards him, cheeks flushed with the sun and hard work. He looked happy, content. “Who’s it then?” he asked Alan, hand outstretched for the phone.

“Kess,” Alan said, handing it over as Dave’s face brightened.

“Hey, you old bastard!” Dave greeted the phone with a cackle. Alan wasn’t surprised; Dave had always been much closer to Kess than the rest of them.

Whatever Kess was saying was amusing Dave to no end. “Yeah, it’s really Dave,” he said, rolling his eyes at Alan who was also smiling. “What do you mean, ‘cough twice if I’m being held against my will’? I’m staying at Al’s because I like it here.”

Shaking his head in amusement, Alan was about to let Dave have his privacy when he noticed a smudge of dirt on his cheek from when he’d wiped his face earlier. Alan tried to alert Dave by gesturing at his own cheek, but Dave just frowned at him in confusion as he continued talking to Kess. Giving up, Alan licked his thumb and cleaned off the dirt himself, rubbing at Dave’s peachy cheek until it was clean. Dave was staring at Alan, his lips parted in surprise. The flush on his cheeks had deepened; it was a good look on him.

 _Thanks_ , Dave mouthed at Alan, giving him a warm smile. Alan nodded in return, his thumb still lingering on Dave’s cheek before he dropped his hand, strangely reluctant as he walked away.  
  


***  
  


Alan was sitting on the swing with Striped curled up on his lap, thoughtfully sipping his glass of wine while a bottle of Perrier was waiting for Dave on the side table. Earlier, Dave’s conversation with Kess had been far longer than Alan’s, which was fair enough considering how close the two of them were. Alan had also heard that it was Kess who had bailed Dave out when he’d gotten arrested after his overdose, and he had also been the one responsible for dragging Dave to the two treatment centres in LA and New York that had eventually helped him get clean. One could only wonder if Kess had done it because he’d had a vested interest in the band staying together.

Shaking his head at his own cynicism, Alan looked up as the back door swung open, Dave’s footsteps thumping towards the swing. He was freshly showered after a day in the garden, wearing his favourite black polka dot shirt thrown over a white tank top. He plopped onto the swing beside Alan; he smelled nice, like Alan’s mint body wash and his own sharp aftershave. Striped blinked up at Dave and immediately bounded over to his lap, like the little traitor she was.

“So what did you say?” Dave asked without preamble, taking the Perrier from Alan with a nod of thanks and popping open the cap.

“Yes to the compilation, no to the interview,” Alan told him, as Dave’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“You serious, Al? I would have thought you of all people would want the interview,” Dave said, frowning at Alan. “It’s the Beeb, after all.”

Now it was Alan’s turn to be confused. “Why would I want it the most?”

“You know.” Dave shrugged, gesturing vaguely with his Perrier bottle. “To tell your side of the story, after Fletch slagged you off and all that.”

“You said stuff about me too,” Alan added, although it was without much heat.

Dave rolled his eyes. “C’mon, you do know I was off my head at the time, right?”

“It’s fine,” Alan said airily as Dave chuckled. “I’ll just keep poisoning your food.”

“Wanker.” Dave set down the bottle so he could start scratching Striped behind her ears, her eyes narrowing in contentment.

Alan looked away, staring at the beautiful Sussex scenery. It was getting late enough in September that the wind now had a bit of bite to it. He idly wondered how long they would be able to keep up their evening routine of watching the sunset together with a drink and a chat. It was getting to be his favourite part of the day.

A chill that had nothing to do with the wind spread through his chest at the reminder that Dave would probably want to move on soon and leave. He would surely grow bored and restless; Dave loved cities and thrived in them, which made sense why he’d been drawn to London and, later on, Los Angeles and New York. They offered him so much more than Alan’s quiet house and quiet life ever could. There was nothing for him here.

“Hey Al?” Dave nudged him, seemingly curious. “Why don’t you want to do the interview?”

“They’re going to focus on the whole business with the drugs,” Alan said quietly. Beside him, Dave’s hands on Striped stilled. “I don’t want them to-- I’m afraid they’ll rip you apart.”

“I’m a big boy, Charlie.” Dave’s voice was gentle. “I can handle whatever they throw at me.”

Alan let out a huff of frustration. “It’s not just going to be a few questions about smack, or whatever. They’re going to ask you things about Jack, Teresa-- it won’t be easy, mate.”

“Then I’ll answer them.” Dave could be pigheaded about certain things, which almost always preceded fights in the studio when the band was still together. “I don’t see the point in hiding. In rehab, they kept drilling into us how important it was to be honest. No one can get sober without being honest.”

Alan studied him. Dave’s mouth was set in a tight firm line, his eyes fierce with determination. Every day, Alan felt like he was discovering something new about Dave - and at the same time, rediscovering something old too, like the goodness in him that he didn’t believe he possessed. It left Alan confused more often than not, because Dave had changed a lot and he’d also stayed the same. It was like Alan was viewing two overlapping yet dissonant images of him at the same time. “And what do you want to be honest about?” Alan found himself asking.

Something in Dave’s eyes softened. “You were vilified by the press,” he said, after a long thoughtful pause. “They blamed you for the band splitting up.”

“I know,” Alan said patiently. “And I don’t care about that.”

“But I do.” Dave held his gaze, as if challenging Alan to try and change his mind.

Alan sighed. “I appreciate that. But it’s fine, Dave. I really don’t want you to have to go through the wringer because of me.”

Dave’s mouth twitched a little. “Then it looks like we’ll have to agree to disagree.”

They held each other’s gaze, clearly at an impasse. It wasn’t something that they were going to agree on soon, but Alan didn’t think the BBC would go ahead if they didn’t manage to nab all of them, even Vince. Besides, as Kess had mentioned, the media was still currently inundated with all the coverage about Diana’s untimely death. This probably wouldn’t come up again until the end of the year, if Dave and the rest were still insisting.

And Dave looked like he would.

“You’re a stubborn git, you know that?” Alan wasn’t entirely able to keep the fondness out of his voice, judging from how Dave grinned and swatted at his head.

“That’s just the pot calling the kettle black, mate.” Dave looked down as Striped stretched, then leapt off his lap. “So, dinner?”

Alan glanced at his watch. “I’m too lazy to cook. Shall we head into town and have a proper meal?”

Dave’s face lit up as he nodded eagerly. “Good idea, because we need more cat food.” He nodded in Striped’s direction. “That one eats like a little horse.”

“We can get some on the way home,” Alan suggested as he stood up from the swing, stretching.

“Home,” Dave repeated. His smile grew a little softer and fonder, his dimples deepening.

“Why, what’d I say?” Alan thought he’d missed something, but evidently not, since Dave just shook his head with a rueful smile, leaving Alan mystified.  
  


***  
  


**Early 1997 - New York City, USA**

Dave stared at the forbidding black telephone mounted on the wall, his throat dry as sandpaper. He’d already used up half of his weekly allocated 30 minutes to talk to Jack, but he’d caught him just before bedtime so they’d kept the conversation short before Jack had started yawning. Jo had been civil enough when they’d discussed the timing of his next call; Dave was already grateful that she was willing to give him another chance and let Dave keep his place in Jack’s life, even though he was only halfway through his full mandated six months of treatment.

He’d failed at rehab before, but this time, he knew it would stick. He’d known it the same way he’d known to sing ‘Heroes’ when Vince had asked him to try out for the band, and he’d known it when he’d shot up for the first time and realised it was a Very Bad Idea.

But now, standing in front of the ancient phone in a quiet corner of the recovery centre, all that earlier certainty had fled in the face of cowardice. Dave knew that London phone number by heart, so well that he could probably recite it backwards in his sleep. But he was still terrified to call. What if Alan hung up on him?

Behind him, someone cleared their throat. Dave turned to see one of the other patients, Eliza, smiling apologetically at him. Her hair was a frizzy, tangled mess. “Sorry, I know it’s still your allocated time. It’s just that, you weren’t dialling--”

Dave gestured wearily at the phone. It was unlikely he was going to call Alan today. “Go ahead, love.”

Eliza grinned at him. “Thanks, hon.”

Dave sighed as he shuffled away, raking a hand roughly through his hair. It was almost time for his private therapy session anyway.  
  


***  
  


Dr McConnell was a short, severe woman in her 40s, her light blond hair tightly pulled back into a bun. Dave had heard all sorts of stories about her, about how she’d made grown men twice her size weep like a five-year-old. But her reputation definitely preceded her; Dave had found her to be mostly mild if not a little presumptuous. She often assumed she already knew everything about him - whether it was from the press or the reports sent over by his previous treatment centre in LA, Dave didn’t know. But he hadn’t liked it at first, the way she acted as though nothing he could say would ever faze her.

They had definitely gotten off on the wrong foot, but the relationship had started to thaw once she’d expedited his requests to get more phone time so he could talk to Jack. Dave could also sense that Dr McConnell wasn’t really moved or impressed by his fame or celebrity status, so Dave had gradually started letting his guard down and started opening up to her, bit by bit.

“Things are better with Jack?” she was asking now, flipping to a new page in her notebook. Dave often wondered what she wrote about him. Once, he thought he’d seen her jotting down ‘father issues’ after a particularly tempestuous session. He couldn’t quite blame her for that one.

“Yeah, I actually just called him before coming to see you.” Dave fiddled with his rings, thinking about how much he wanted to see Jack in person again. “Poor fella was tired out, though.”

“You can try again tomorrow.” She made a note in the margins, which probably meant she was going to put in a request to extend Dave’s phone privileges. “So, called anyone else?”

Dave dropped his gaze, instinctively rubbing at his mouth and forgetting that he no longer had his goatee and moustache. He felt weirdly naked without his facial hair. “Erm--”

“You called him?” Dr McConnell’s gaze was steady, knowing. “You called Alan?”

Dave shook his head with a hoarse laugh. “He’d probably hang up on me.”

Dr McConnell seemed thoughtful. “You wouldn’t know unless you actually gave it a try.”

“What if I do, and he hates me now?” Dave blurted out. “It’s worse, isn’t it? To have confirmation.”

Dr McConnell gave Dave a kind look. “Some people won’t love you no matter what you do,” she said gently. “But some people won’t stop loving you no matter what you do.”

To Dave’s horror, his eyes immediately filled with tears. He hurriedly wiped them away, shielding his face with shaky hands. But the tears just kept coming, Dave quietly crying into his hands as he thought of his mother, his family, Jack. He thought of Mart, Kess, Daryl, even Fletch.

But most of all, he thought about Alan.

Dr McConnell didn’t say anything for a few long moments, her respectful silence very much like a comforting blanket around Dave’s shoulders. After a while she got up and left her office, leaving Dave to dry his eyes and collect himself. He’d calmed down by the time she returned with a glass of water, which she handed to him without a word. He drained it in one go, wiping his eyes again with the sleeve of his shirt.

“Can we talk about something else?” Dave hated how small and vulnerable his voice sounded, as though he’d been singing straight for a week.

Mercifully, Dr McConnell didn’t press the matter any further.

***  
  


**1997 - Chichester, UK**

They ended up having dinner at one of the fancy new gastropubs that had opened in town. Alan seemed to like the beers they had on tap, while Dave stuck to lemonade and delighted in the fact that he could smoke at the table. More and more places these days were getting strict about letting him light up indoors, which only served to remind him what an unhealthy habit smoking was. But as much as Dave had tried, it was the one thing he couldn’t give up. Besides, he didn’t really want to either; it was his one remaining vice, his main weakness.

Well, one of two, really. The other one was sitting across the table from him, eating a plate of chips with his eyes glued to the telly.

“C’mon Al, you’ve already seen this match,” Dave reminded him, stubbing out his cigarette in a nearby battered ashtray and lighting another one almost immediately.

“Yeah, I know.” Alan didn’t take his eyes off the screen, though. Dave stifled a laugh; Alan was utterly hopeless whenever there was football on. Still, it wasn’t as though Dave minded. It was a little unnerving, having Alan’s laserlike attention entirely focused on him all at once. Alan was the sort of person who was very present, paying attention to the littlest details while others were easily distracted. It was the sort of trait that made him good at what he did, anyway. Dave wasn’t exactly surprised.

After they’d finished eating, they made a stop at Waitrose for cat food as well as a few things they were running out of. They were carrying their bags out to the car when Dave spotted a travel agent further down the high street, its bright lights still on. “Hey, give me a minute,” he told Alan, handing over his bags. “I just want to make some enquiries.”

“Huh?” A confused Alan looked over to where Dave was pointing, his frown clearing when he spotted the travel agent’s giant plane logo. “Oh, go on then. I’ll wait here.”

Dave ran over to the shop just as they were about to pull down the shutters, asking the staff about possible flights to New York in October. They were kind enough to print out a list of dates for him and their corresponding prices, and he promised to come back and book directly with them once he firmed up his travel plans. Alan was smoking by the car by the time Dave jogged back, his gaze resting on the piece of paper Dave was holding. There was an inscrutable expression on his face that Dave couldn’t quite read. “Got what you wanted?” Alan asked, his tone oddly flat.

“Yeah, I reckon.” Dave waved the paper at him. “Just asking about flights to New York, y’know? Though I’m not sure if I should fly out of Heathrow or Gatwick.”

Dave couldn’t help laughing at Alan’s immediate grimace. The entire band had developed a healthy hatred for airports and planes by the time they were done with the whole sordid business of touring. “Gatwick is slightly less hellish, I suppose,” Alan said, stubbing out his cigarette and getting into the car. He seemed a little distant, bothered by something.

Dave studied him as he slid into the passenger seat. “Everything okay, mate?”

Alan merely nodded. “Everything’s peachy keen,” he mimicked in an exaggerated American drawl, as Dave snickered. Still, on the way home, Dave couldn’t stop throwing Alan concerned sidelong glances, feeling as though he’d done something wrong, somehow.  
  


***  
  


For the next few days, Alan appeared to be in a strange mood. To anyone else - like Nowak and his crew - he probably seemed normal: polite, friendly, frequently witty. But to Dave, who’d learned over the years how to read every quirk of Alan’s eyebrow and every strained half-hearted smile, Alan might as well be shouting his unhappiness from the rooftops. It wasn’t that he was depressed or anything like that, but there was just something _off_ about Alan, like he was being especially pensive and rueful for no reason at all.

Thankfully, things seemed to improve once the studio started taking shape more and more. Alan took the Yamaha drum set that he’d played on the Devotional tour out of storage and set it up in the basement, then the two of them spent a very enjoyable afternoon testing out the studio’s soundproofing by banging on the drums like a pair of lunatics and laughing as they shoved at each other.

Once Nowak and his crew had left for the day, Dave went to get some drinks for Alan and himself. Balancing two bottles of water, Dave could hear Alan messing about on the piano as he descended into the basement, and it caused a fierce surge of nostalgia within him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard Alan playing the piano just for the hell of it, without thousands and thousands of people watching them on stage. It must have been back when they were recording the last album in Madrid and Hamburg, but Dave admittedly hadn’t been in the proper state of mind to appreciate it at the time. He wondered what he’d do then, if he’d known that they were making music together for quite possibly the very last time.

Alan was sitting at the Steinway, playing something classical that was very familiar. As Dave made his way to the piano, Alan smiled up at him before resuming the piece, scooting aside to make space for Dave on the stool. So Dave took the invitation and joined him, reasoning with himself that it was perfectly normal for two grown men to sit so close together so that the piano seat could just about accommodate both of them. Dave watched his fingers gracefully skating over the keys, trying unsuccessfully not to notice Alan’s clean, masculine scent, like sweat and mint.

“What was that one called?” Dave asked, once Alan’s playing had tapered off. “Something by Chopin, was it?”

Alan shook his head, giving Dave a little smile. “Debussy’s ‘Clair de Lune’.”

“How _common_ ,” Dave teased him, which made Alan grin and try to push him off the stool.

After that, Alan started cycling through a series of repurposed pop songs, beginning with a bluesy rendition of ‘Yesterday’ before attempting a slowed-down version of ‘Satisfaction’, Dave hollering along with his own lyrics and making Alan laugh, his usually sure fingers stumbling over the keys. Dave was sure the Steinway bloke - or whoever had built this baby grand - would have a fit if he saw the two of them clowning around with his precious piano. But Dave couldn’t bring himself to care at all, delighting in the way Alan was smiling like an absolute nutter, the happiest Dave had seen him in years.

Eventually the giggles subsided, and Alan’s gifted hands started playing something oddly familiar, making Dave frown in curiosity. “Shit, I know this,” he said, as Alan flashed him a mysterious smile.

“I hear you singing it in the garden often enough,” Alan replied, giving him an encouraging nod. “Go on, guess.”

Dave stared at Alan’s hands, humming along to the melody and racking his brains until it suddenly dawned upon him. It was a gorgeous, slowed-down version of the newest Foo Fighters song that was all over the radio. “Fuck, it’s ‘Everlong’,” Dave said in awe, grinning widely at Alan. “Almost didn’t recognise it, your version’s bloody gorgeous.”

Halfway through the first verse, Dave started singing along, letting Alan’s playing carry him off to that private little space inside his head that welcomed him in whenever he sang something that really moved him, like when they’d recorded ‘Condemnation’ for the very first time.

Even though it was now a Foo Fighters song and not one of their own, Dave didn’t mind; he’d been used to wearing someone else’s feelings on his sleeve for years. Singing along with Alan on the piano, the two of them were so in sync with each other that Dave felt goosebumps prickling all over his skin, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.  
  


_If everything could ever feel this real forever  
If anything could ever be this good again  
The only thing I'll ever ask of you  
You've got to promise not to stop when I say when.  
  
_

Alan finished the song with a flourish, his fingers resting on the keys as he looked up at Dave with an incredulous smile. Dave couldn’t blame him; it’d been an electrifying moment, reminiscent of the days when they’d been one whole unit, recording some of their best music. Dave didn’t know why he was trembling, staring back at Alan as he tried to absorb the magnitude of this moment, to understand why he felt like he was going to float off if it weren’t for Alan’s warm presence beside him, his clear grey eyes the only thing tethering Dave to the earth.

It was Alan who looked away first, breaking their shared gaze and leaving Dave reeling as though Alan had physically shoved him away. “We should get dinner started,” he said, sounding a little quiet and lost.

Dave only nodded, not trusting himself to speak just yet.  
  
  



	6. Those Tender Moments, Under This Roof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: one use of a homophobic slur.

**1997 - Chichester, UK**

For the next few days, Alan wasn’t sure what to think after that very strange moment with Dave at the piano the other day. Thankfully, Dave was acting as if nothing had happened, which only made Alan question himself even further. Had he really sensed something between them? Or had it all been a product of Alan’s imagination?

Alan really didn’t know what to make of it. But it didn’t seem like he needed to worry about it for much longer, for Dave had driven into town that week and booked his flight to New York in early October. Alan had always known that Dave was going to leave at some point, but the reality had only hit him squarely in the face when Dave had come back from the travel agent’s and shown him the Delta Airlines ticket leaving from Gatwick. Any sane person would have been relieved to have the house back to himself, but instead the thought of Dave’s impending departure left Alan strangely empty and morose.

Alan knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that he was going to miss Dave immensely. This was nothing like how they’d used to part ways after touring, with the assurance that they would soon be meeting each other again after a break. This time around, Alan didn’t know when he would see Dave again. And the thought bothered him a lot more than he’d expected.

“You alright, Al?” Dave was in the midst of helping him to set up the mics in the recording chamber, eyeing Alan with trepidation. “You’re miles away.”

“Just thinking.” Alan gave him a reassuring smile as he looped some long cables around his arm. Next door, Nowak was shouting at his men in the control room; thankfully they were spared the yelling by virtue of the soundproof chamber. “We should do something special before you leave next week.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Maybe it was Alan’s imagination, but Dave’s smile faded a bit. “Sure, I guess.”

“Anything you want in particular?”

“I liked West Wittering,” Dave said. There was a distant look in his eyes. “Maybe we could go on a night drive around that area. For something different, y’know?”

“Be honest,” Alan teased him. “You just want to go back and stalk Keith Richards, don’t you?”

Dave snorted. “You always see right through me, Charlie.”

Someone knocked on the glass window separating the studio and control room, startling them both. It was an irate Nowak, who was waving for Alan to come outside. Passing Dave the cables, Alan joined Nowak in the control room. The man had a sheaf of new invoices and some questions about the recent amendments they’d discussed.

“Also, I want to install mounting hooks for painting on the wall,” Nowak informed Alan, before gesturing at Dave who was still inside the recording chamber. “Your boyfriend, he told me it is about 1 by 1.5 metres, aha?”

Alan was about to sign another invoice when he realised what Nowak had just said. “No, wait-- Dave isn’t my boyfriend,” Alan corrected him.

Nowak’s dark eyebrows drew together in confusion. “Not your boyfriend?” He clearly didn’t seem convinced, glancing at Dave through the glass window. An oblivious Dave was setting up the pop filter for the mic; when he noticed both Alan and Nowak staring at him, he waved cheerily at them.

Alan shook his head, just as nonplussed. “Sorry, you’re mistaken.”

At this point Nowak turned, hollering something in Polish to one of his workmen. The bloke stood up in disbelief, saying something that sounded very much like the Polish equivalent of, ‘No bloody way,’ and making a crude gesture that Alan had seen plenty of the band’s past roadies doing on tour. Nowak replied with a shrug before turning back to Alan. "Fine, sorry. So, mounting hooks okay?”

After Alan agreed to everything else and signed the last of the invoices, Dave came out of the chamber and grinned at both of them. “Were you guys talking about me?”

“In your dreams,” Alan said as Dave rolled his eyes. He didn’t miss the way Nowak was sceptically eyeing Dave’s nails, which were painted a glossy black.

Long after Nowak and his men had left for the day, Alan was lying in bed, still thinking about how easily they’d assumed that he and Dave were together. Although people were starting to be a bit more open about gays these days, Alan didn’t think it was normal for Nowak and his crew to automatically believe that he and Dave were a couple. Sure, they were both single, decent-looking blokes. And all right, maybe Dave was more than a bit decent-looking. Alan was increasingly starting to notice that Dave - especially this new, reformed Dave - now possessed an inherent confidence and strength that drew people to him, like a broken sword that had been reforged once more.

Alan didn’t quite know how to process this new information, which he’d been wilfully ignoring ever since that day at the beach with Dave. It had echoes of that night in Berlin at the gay club, when he’d looked over at Dave and been struck by his beauty. Alan had always been comfortable with his sexuality, hardly ever bothered whenever someone called him a faggot, which had happened plenty of times over the years. It also wasn’t the first time that someone had thought he and Dave were together; they’d always been closer than close, both physically and emotionally speaking. Alan had always been happy to correct anyone with that mistaken assumption.

This time, he wasn’t sure why it felt different.  
  


***  
  


By the time October rolled around, Alan couldn’t believe that his studio was almost complete. It had felt like only yesterday when he’d first driven by the house and assessed the potential in its massive basement. He couldn’t wait to make a proper record here, but he wouldn’t be able to do that until the bulk of his equipment - the mixing board, the rack mount, various amps and many other bits and pieces - were in. Flood, whom he’d been consulting over the phone and the new technological wonder of email, had agreed to come in at some point and offer his expertise.

The garden was coming along brilliantly too. Alan had entrusted Dave with it, left it in his capable hands where it flourished beyond Alan’s wildest expectations. When Dave took Alan through a final tour of it, Alan was amazed by the pretty rows of raised wooden garden beds, segregated into flowering plants, vegetables and even neat patches of fresh herbs. Dave talked about things like mulch and tilling and transplants, and Alan let his voice wash over him, soothing and calming.

Dave was so obviously very proud of his hard work, pointing out little personal touches that made the garden their own: colourful pots where he’d painted lyrics on the side, a pebbled garden path that Dave had rescued from ruin, even a little birdhouse that Striped kept staring at in fascination. “Don’t let that little bugger get near it,” Dave warned Alan. “But if you put seeds there, robins come sometimes.”

Dave had even set aside a little patch which he’d merrily nicknamed Keef’s Korner, where he’d replanted the plants he’d saved from the old garden. “Because they’re the hardy bastards that refuse to die,” Dave said with a laugh, as Alan grinned. “Just like Keef himself, yeah?”

“They look a lot less withered though.” Alan smiled at Dave. “I’ll be sure to take care of them. And everything else, too.”

A brief flicker of sadness crossed Dave’s features for just a moment, then it was gone. “I’ll miss this place,” Dave said with a sigh, eyes scanning the garden. His garden, really.

 _Then stay_ , Alan wanted to say. He forced the surely unwelcome words back, clearing his throat. Dave’s ticket to LaGuardia Airport was waiting upstairs in his room, neatly slotted into his passport. He had a whole life waiting for him in America that had no space for Alan. “Thank you, really,” Alan said instead. “You did a beautiful job.”

Dave just nodded, still not looking at Alan. He could see Dave’s Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed a few times. “Just wanted to give you something in return, mate.”

“Yeah, I understand.”

They stood there in the late afternoon light looking at the garden, at least until Dave suddenly bent down - to pick up Striped, Alan belatedly realised. He reached out to scratch under her chin as she purred contentedly in Dave’s arms. Dave grinned at Alan, and Alan smiled back.  
  


***  
  


**1992 - Madrid, Spain**

Alan honestly didn’t want anything in particular for his birthday. He didn’t even want a cake, and he’d insisted to both Daryl and Flood not to make a big fuss out of it. So of course this translated into a big surprise gathering in the living room, Alan having to act surprised as he descended the stairs to almost everyone singing ‘Happy Birthday’ deliberately off-key, Anton filming him the whole time. It was a little disconcerting in a way, to be on the other side of the camera like this; Alan had always been the one recording all these private little moments over the years. Now, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d touched his video camera.

“Make a wish!” Daryl demanded, as everyone cheered.

“What am I, five?” Alan retorted in jest.

“The candles say otherwise, mate,” Flood shouted to much laughter. “Now blow them out before we have to call the fire department.”

Shooting a glare at a grinning Flood, Alan closed his eyes and wished for the first thing that came to his mind: _I want to go home_. But deep down, he knew that statement was hollow. Things with Jeri had been rocky, even though they’d only just gotten married, and he couldn’t even be there to try and sort things out with her. Instead he was stuck here in a foreign country, killing himself with work, and his closest friend in this place was the bloke who was also killing himself at the mixing board, right beside Alan.

Alan blew out his candles with a subdued smile. “All right, Al!” Dave whooped, clapping the loudest. “Now where’s the bloody champagne?”

Daryl produced a stack of paper plates, while Alan divided the cake into even slices and Flood helped with the distribution. Dave soon reappeared with a bottle of champagne, shaking it enthusiastically before popping the cork and laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world. The champagne spilled onto the floor, prompting a ‘tsk’ from Martin who was sitting nearby. “What a waste,” he said to Dave with a nervous little titter, although Alan suspected he wasn’t entirely joking.

They sat around eating the cake - which looked homemade, although Alan had no idea who had whipped it up - and Daryl handed him the ‘33’ candle that he’d rescued from the mess. Alan took it with a gracious smile, but deep down he couldn’t believe how quickly time had passed. He’d auditioned for the band when he was 22, and now here he was at 33, stuck in Madrid with a rapidly disintegrating marriage - _two_ failing marriages, if he wanted to be pedantic. He didn’t think the band would last beyond this album, although they were admittedly producing some of their very best music.

He wondered where he would be when he turned 44. All he knew was that he would never be in this situation again, with these people.

Alan looked around the living room of the villa, watching everyone eat his birthday cake. Daryl, Flood and Paul were squabbling light-heartedly about something silly, while a gloomy Fletch was huddled on the nearby sofa, his scowl so intense that the frown line in-between his eyebrows looked like it was permanently etched on his face. Next to him, Martin was picking at his cake dispiritedly, looking like he would rather be anywhere but here. At least he smiled a little when Dave spoke to him, the two of them sharing some joke that made Martin let out his distinctive sharp laugh.

Alan kept an eye on the two of them, a sharp ache calcifying in a lump in his throat. Dave and Martin seemed so much closer these days, like they had recognised they were two ends of the same dysfunctional see-saw. Alan never felt more alone than he did now, surrounded by a sea of people he’d known for years, people whom he’d spent most of his adult life with. The cake now tasted like ash in his mouth. He watched in silence as Dave laughed a little too hard at everything people were saying, hands gesticulating wildly everywhere as though he were conducting some phantom orchestra. Alan could barely recognise him anymore.

“Oi.” Daryl was nudging Alan, pointing at Anton who was asking Alan to say something to the camera. Alan plastered on a polite smile, following Anton’s instructions. Truth be told, Alan just wanted to get back to the studio and continue working on the bridge for ‘Mercy’ that had been bothering both him and Flood all day.

He caught Flood’s eye, arching an eyebrow at him: _shall we?_

Flood frowned, glancing meaningfully at his watch: _too soon._ Then Flood’s gaze shifted upwards to someone behind Alan. Before Alan could react, he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Got a minute, Al?” It was Dave, who was smiling down hopefully at Alan.

“Yeah, sure.” Alan got up, following Dave up the stairs to his room. He’d rarely been inside, because Dave often kept his door locked these days. On the few occasions when Alan had dropped by, Dave kept the place so dark and gloomy that Alan had always excused himself and left after a short while. Now, Alan squinted as they stepped in, surprised by how bright it was. For once the curtains were opened to let in the glaring Madrid sun, filling Dave’s room with natural light instead of the usual eerie glow of the numerous candles he’d recently started insisting on.

Alan was taken aback by the several canvases strewn around the room. It seemed Dave had been busy - whenever he wasn’t shooting up or mooning over Teresa, that was. Alan examined the various paintings, stunned by how much Dave’s talent had progressed. He’d stayed over at Dave’s various homes enough over the years to be familiar with his painting style, but Dave was now producing artwork that would look very much at home in a London art gallery somewhere. For a wild minute, Alan couldn’t help wondering whether there was some truth to hard drugs fostering creative inspiration.

Then he’d felt disgusted with himself and shut down that thought immediately.

“Just a little birthday present for you, Al.” Dave was busy lighting a cigarillo, gesturing vaguely in the direction of an easel. It held a painting of a grand piano, but upon closer inspection, the piano had sharp jagged teeth instead of the usual black and white keys. It both tickled Alan and fascinated him with its absurdist twist.

“I love it.” Alan stood in front of the painting, hands clasped so he wouldn’t run his fingers over the textured paint. He could imagine Dave standing here for hours and hours, dabbing at the canvas painstakingly with his brush. “I like the teeth.”

“What?” Blowing out a stream of smoke, Dave turned to look at where Alan was standing. “Oh sorry, didn’t mean that one. Just finished that, actually.” Instead, Dave reached behind the easel, where there was a wrapped oblong box waiting on the table behind. “ _This_ is my present.”

“Oh, my mistake.” Alan carefully tucked away his disappointment; Dave could be very sensitive about these things. He focused on the gift instead, shaking the box. “Is it the crossbow I’ve always wanted?”

Laughing, Dave tucked his hair behind his ear as he took another deep drag of his cigarillo. “Yeah, Kess would love that.” An amused Dave pretended to hold up a newspaper. “I can just see the headlines: ‘English band perishes in murder rampage in Spain’.”

“Flattering,” Alan deadpanned, as Dave chuckled. “I’d better learn the words for ‘I’m innocent, officer’ in Spanish.”

As Dave seemed to be anticipating Alan’s reaction to the gift, Alan shedded the wrapping paper and took the lid off the long wooden box. His eyes widened when he saw it was an intricate pair of black drumsticks that had red grips, the name ‘CHARLIE’ engraved in silver lettering on the sides. “Wow, Dave, you didn’t have to--”

“Like them?” Dave was smiling fondly at him. “I got them done at a little place in Silver Lake.”

“You brought them from LA?” Alan wasn’t sure why he was surprised. He already knew Dave had always been generous with his friends, but there was something about Dave ordering the sticks in LA and bringing them all the way to Spain, keeping them in his bag until the time was right. “Just-- thank you. Really.”

“You’re welcome, happy birthday.” Dave stubbed out the cigarillo, then drew Alan closer for a hug. “I love you, Al.”

“You too, mate.” Alan tried not to think about how scrawny Dave’s arms were around him, how he could feel Dave’s ribs through his shirt. When they finally released each other, Alan didn’t miss how Dave’s eyes were a little red-rimmed even though his face was shielded by a curtain of hair.

“Maybe next time, I’ll do a painting for you,” Dave said. He seemed distant, unusually sombre. “I mean, if that’s what you want.”

“You know what I really want?” Alan was seized by a sudden, bold streak of daring. “I want you to come back. I want my friend back. That’s all.”

A laughing Dave wrinkled his nose in confusion. “But-- I’m here, Al.”

Suddenly overwhelmed by the wave of exhaustion that washed over him, Alan walked over to the window, which overlooked the garden for the villa. There were rows and rows of Valencia rose bushes, and of course he thought of the rose on the Violator cover, how Anton had painted it red and nailed it to a board. How apt, Alan thought, for how he felt these days. “You know what I mean,” he said very quietly, unsure if Dave even heard him. But from the way Dave’s chuckles subsided, it was a good bet that he did.

Dave didn’t say anything for a long while, just coming to stand beside Alan. He was staring out into the garden too, raking his new longish hair back. It was actually a really good look on him, but Alan hadn’t liked the other things that had come with the new hairstyle. “I can handle it, Charlie.” Dave sounded a lot more confident than Alan knew he really was. “I can, I promise.”

Although Dave was standing right beside him, Alan had never felt further away from him than he did now. “Okay,” Alan said. He still felt very tired and defeated.

Of course, he didn’t believe Dave at all.

***  
  


**1997 - Chichester, UK**

For the first time in a long time, Dave had a timeline. He only had three days left with Alan until he had to head back to Bas, spend some time with Jack, then finally board that flight to New York. He needed to check in with Dr McConnell and Big Mike, since he’d already missed a few weeks of NA meetings. He’d called them on the phone, of course, but even over the crackly transatlantic connection, he’d thought he could discern the underlying worry in their voices.

Dr McConnell in particular hadn’t been very pleased when he had sheepishly informed her that he was staying with Alan. “This wasn’t what I had in mind when I’d encouraged you to contact him,” she’d told him. “I suggested that as part of making amends.”

Dave had insisted that was his primary purpose too. She hadn't said anything else, even though Dave could easily sense her disapproval over the line. In the end, she’d simply reminded him about not replacing one addiction with another before moving on to the subject of his meds. After Dave had assured her that he had barely touched his subs, they’d made an appointment for Dave to check in with her once he was back in Manhattan.

With the garden done and Striped settling in at Alan’s house, all that was left was for Dave to finish the painting that Alan had requested.

It had taken him some time to decide on the subject of Alan’s painting. At first he had wanted to depict the three of them - he, Alan and Striped - posing on the porch swing. But then he realised it was a little presumptuous of him; Alan was definitely going to be collaborating with all sorts of artists and inviting them to his studio, so they might look at the painting and get the wrong idea about them. It didn’t matter that Dave wanted to pay tribute to the past month he’d spent in Alan’s house, a safe harbour Alan had offered him where he could continue putting himself back together a little bit at a time. He didn’t think anyone - outside of Alan and himself - could understand that, so he’d gone the safe route and painted a portrait of Striped, snoozing in the garden.

However, Dave admittedly hadn’t been able to help himself. Another idea had occurred to him when he’d been halfway through Striped’s portrait, so he’d started on the other artwork as well, just for fun. He worked on it most nights after Alan had gone to bed, painting what he could from memory. Maybe he’d gotten a few details wrong - the colour of his shirt, or the way Alan had styled his hair. But it matched the vision he’d carried in his head all these years, so that had been good enough.

Besides, it wasn’t as though he was going to actually give the second painting to Alan. His plan was to leave Alan with Striped’s portrait, then toss out the other one together with the rest of his half-finished paintings.

He wondered how Alan would repurpose the art room after he was gone. The thought left an ache in his chest, but he had to be practical and move on. He’d interrupted enough of Alan’s peace and quiet, as it were.  
  


***  
  


The day before Dave’s departure, he added the finishing touches to the portrait of Striped, leaving it on display on the easel while he hid the rest of the unfinished canvases in the far corner of the room, fully intending to help Alan toss them in the rubbish before he left the next day. He cleared the paints as well and washed the brushes, stacking everything neatly before closing the door. Alan had been right; painting had been a very therapeutic process for Dave, and he’d filled his journal with many sketches as well. He hoped Alan would like the painting of Striped and find it fit to display in his studio. If not, Dave had done one of the house as well; he’d spent hours painting its warm red brick exterior, taking care to include the English ivy clinging to the exterior walls of the garage.

As per tradition, they spent Dave’s last evening on the porch swing, chatting as they watched the sunset with Striped sprawled over Dave’s lap. Alan was a little quieter than usual, and he’d skipped his wine in favour of Dave’s San Pellegrino. “Might as well finish it up, right?” Alan said with a small smile, and Dave had clinked his bottle against Alan’s before swallowing away the ache stoppered in his throat.

After the sun had set, Alan took him to his favourite Italian restaurant in town, and the owner even dropped by with some complimentary affogato once she found out Dave was leaving for New York. Then, as promised, they’d piled into Alan’s car and headed off for West Wittering. Dave took in every detail he could, storing it away for when he was alone and aching in New York: the full fat moon hanging in the dark inky sky like a pearl, the way Alan’s now longer hair was ruffled by the wind, the radio playing something sad and moody by Radiohead.

They stopped the car at an overlook somewhere in East Head, getting out and leaning against the car bonnet. In the distance, Dave could hear the waves gently crashing onto the shore, the sea breeze cool and heavy with the smell of salt. Above them were scores and scores of stars, so beautiful and numerous that Dave just leaned back against Alan’s car, and stared and stared.

Alan was the first to break the silence. “So what are your plans in New York?”

Dave just kept his gaze on the night sky. Alan was lucky, having a view like this right on his doorstep. “Find out if I’ve been evicted, I guess,” he said, as Alan chuckled. “Then check in with my sponsor and therapist.”

“Are they worried?” Alan asked.

“Not my sponsor, at least.” Dave smiled at the thought of Big Mike, with his loud booming laughter and his wry sense of humour. He thought Mike and Alan would have liked each other. “He knows I’m in good hands here.”

Although Alan didn’t say anything, Dave didn’t miss the way the corner of his mouth tugged up in the tiniest smile. “You must have forgotten the bit where I’ve been poisoning you.”

“It’s not like you to do such a shoddy job and leave it half done,” Dave said, smiling at Alan who was also grinning. “Good thing I’m leaving before you can finish the job.”

Alan’s smile faded. “I’m going to miss you.” He wasn’t looking at Dave, his gaze fixed on the sea in the distance as he gnawed on his nails. Dave felt a stab of nostalgia upon seeing that; it was something Alan frequently used to do whenever he was bored, stressed out or nervous.

“Me too, Charlie.” Dave slid a little closer to Alan, the two of them staring out at the sea. There were so many things he wanted to say, things that he'd crossed an ocean to tell Alan. There was a litany of apologies waiting on the tip of his tongue, a flood of remorse and regret contained in the shape of him for the past few years. But beyond this was something he'd carried even longer than that, the secret that bore Alan's name, locked away in the depths of Dave's heart.

They stood there until the wind started to drop in temperature, leaving Dave's face chilled and numb. It was already late, and he still had to give Alan the painting. "Let's go back, then," he suggested to Alan, who only nodded without a word. All through the drive home, Alan wore a pinched, unhappy expression, and Dave just watched him in silence, tucking his cold hands under his thighs so that they wouldn’t shake.  
  


***  
  


Just as Alan was getting ready for bed, Dave tiptoed over to his room and knocked on the door. “Got a minute, Al?”

Alan glanced at him with raised eyebrows, in the midst of buttoning up his black silk pyjamas. He looked soft and sleepy. “Yeah, sure.”

Dave led him to the art studio, pushing open the door and turning on the lights. It was gratifying to watch the way Alan’s smile brightened when he spotted the portrait of Striped on the easel. “I love it,” he confessed, letting his hand trail down the edge of the canvas. “I’ll hang it up in the studio tomorrow.”

“I’m glad you like it, mate.” Dave came to stand beside him, both of them admiring the painting. It was admittedly some of Dave’s best work, one he’d put a lot of thought into. He was going to miss Striped like hell too, but he was trying his best not to think too much about it. It was already hard enough, leaving Alan and this house. Dave didn’t want to be a mess.

Trying to lighten the mood, he slung an arm companionably around Alan’s shoulders. It felt warm and comfortable, easy. Alan looked over at him; there was something raw and honest in his eyes. “Thank you.”

Dave couldn’t look away. His throat had gone dry, his limbs freezing in place, pinned as he was under Alan’s gaze, like Anton’s rose. “Charlie--”

Then Alan leaned forward and kissed him.

Dave froze in complete shock. Alan was kissing him like he was starved for it, his tongue running over Dave’s slack lower lip. He’d dreamed so many times of this, but even in his wildest fantasies it had always been him making the first move, pinning Alan somewhere and attacking his mouth without warning, him trapping Alan against a wall and kissing the life out of him, him cornering Alan in the studio and slipping his tongue into Alan’s mouth, finally getting to taste him for the first time. So Dave was completely caught off guard, stunned beyond measure at Alan’s lips on his, warm and wet and unmistakably firm.

He was still gawking at Alan, utterly gobsmacked as Alan pulled away, his face shadowed in regret. “Sorry,” Alan blurted out, shaking his head at himself. “Fuck, Dave-- I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”

Dave finally stirred into action, blinking at Alan in a daze. Alan’s words were just starting to sink into his brain. “Wait, Charlie--”

“Sorry,” Alan kept repeating, raking a hand through his hair. The consternation on his face was obvious as he quickly backed away from Dave, already heading for the door. “I-- I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Al, wait!” Dave shouted as Alan left the studio without another word. He went after Alan immediately, but he hadn’t been quick enough. Alan was already in his room, and Dave was just in time for the door to slam shut in his face, the key turning in its lock.  
  
  
  



	7. What Can I Say? I'm Heading For the Door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late! Also, a massive thank you to **sapphican** who did this beautiful Dave/Alan drawing! It is not necessarily for 'Home' but it is so beautiful that I must share [her amazing artwork here!](https://youknowhowharditisforme.tumblr.com/post/632346144527220736/more-artwork-by-sapphican)

**1997 - Chichester, UK**

The alarm went off at seven, but it didn’t matter. Alan hadn’t slept a wink all night.

Rolling over and pressing the off button, Alan was tempted to just bash the clock against his own stupid head. He couldn’t believe what he had done to poor Dave last night. Here Dave was, trying to get his life together after recovery and have a little respite from the vultures circling around him. Then Alan had come along and thrown a spanner in the works, needlessly complicating their already complicated friendship - and Dave’s life.

Alan had spent a sleepless night with his head buried under the pillows, mentally kicking himself over and over again. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ How had he lost control like that? He _never_ , ever lost control, and he still couldn’t understand what had happened. Last night, Dave had stood outside his room for the longest time and banged on the door, yelling himself hoarse for Alan to just _talk_ to him. But Alan hadn’t answered, too afraid of facing the consequences. He knew Dave wouldn’t hit him, but that didn’t mean Dave wasn’t going to be all sympathetic and kind, which in Alan’s opinion was ten times worse. Alan would much rather Dave knee him in the bollocks; it would hurt far less.

In a twisted turn of fate, Alan was now absurdly glad that Dave was leaving this morning and they wouldn’t have to bear with Alan’s colossal mistake hanging over them like the sword of Damocles. They would say their awkward goodbyes, then Alan could get blindingly drunk and throw a massive self-pity party with no one but Striped to stare at him in disapproval.

Rubbing his eyes, Alan forced himself out of bed and into the shower, stuck his head under the hot running water. He just had to get through this, see Dave off and then he had an eternity to contemplate his own foolishness.  
  


***  
  


Alan could hear Dave already moving around downstairs, talking on the phone to someone. As Alan descended the steps, his gaze fell on Dave’s bag, already packed and waiting on the sofa. Dave’s back was facing him, his head bowed as he spoke softly onto the phone. “Yeah, I’ll be there in a few hours, promise,” Alan could hear Dave saying. “I can’t wait too, buddy. Love you, little man. See you later.”

Sighing as he placed the cordless phone back in its cradle, Dave turned around and almost jumped when he saw Alan was already in the living room. He seemed hesitant, unsure. “Al, listen--”

“You’re all packed then?” Alan kept his tone as light as possible, but Dave’s incredulous expression pretty much told him that avoiding the topic was impossible.

“So we’re just not going to talk about last night?” Dave was now striding towards him so that they were standing face to face, and there was no chance for Alan to run away. Up this close, Alan couldn’t miss the dark circles under Dave’s bloodshot eyes, the careless mess of his usually impeccable hair. It seemed Alan wasn’t the only one who’d had a sleepless night. In fact, compared to him, Dave looked _wrecked_. Alan felt another stab at guilt for doing this to him.

Alan kept his voice as toneless and calm as possible. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“You kissed me,” Dave said, his voice increasingly getting louder. He looked more upset than angry. “I deserve to know why.”

A litany of lame, daft excuses floated to the top of Alan’s head. _I was drunk. I was caught up in the moment. I wasn’t thinking._ But they all sounded like a young man’s excuses, thin as paper and reeking of recklessness. Dave deserved more than that, after all they’d been through. And deep down, in the quiet whispers of Alan’s heart, he knew those excuses weren’t true. He’d barely drunk a drop of alcohol last night, and he had most definitely been thinking of Dave in a less than friendly way for a long while now.

In the end, Alan let out a deep sigh. “I said I was sorry, all right?”

“Not good enough,” Dave said stubbornly, which made Alan let out a groan of frustration. Now Dave was gripping him by the elbows. “C’mon Al, talk to me,” he urged, closer than Alan liked.

“There’s nothing to discuss,” Alan said evenly, shaking an astonished Dave’s hands off. The lack of sleep - and such close proximity to Dave - was muddling his usually clear sense of calm and rationality. “I fucked up, alright? End of discussion.”

Dave’s jaw tightened. “That’s it?”

“Yeah, that’s it.” Alan felt something flare up within him when he saw the dark, mutinous look on Dave’s face. “What?”

“It’s like we’re in the fuckin’ studio all over again,” Dave said bitterly. “Whatever Al says, goes. Right?”

Alan was aghast. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means.” Dave’s face was turning red from suppressed anger. “You’re doing that thing again where you-- you just bloody steamroll over everyone and insist you’re right!”

“That’s not being fair,” Alan snapped.

That _really_ seemed to set Dave off, his face turning red. “Fair?” he said loudly. “Don’t fuckin’ talk to me about things being _fair_. I’m trying to talk about last night and you’re shutting me down!”

“I’m not shutting you down. There’s just no point talking about it,” Alan shot back. “There’s a fucking difference.”

Dave laughed bitterly. “I can’t believe you’re still doing this-- this utter shit.”

Alan stared at him, anger and confusion warring within him. “Some context, please?” He must have subconsciously laid on the sarcasm thick, because Dave’s face turned even redder.

“You’re just gonna do whatever you want to do, and fuck everyone else, right?” Dave was shaking his head as he started pacing around the living room, getting more and more agitated. “Go ahead and turn a ballad into a bloody dance track. Leave the band and send your mate nothing but a fuckin’ fax--”

“I told you I couldn’t bloody find you,” Alan interrupted, holding onto the slippery edges of his anger. “What the hell did you expect me to do?”

Dave scoffed at him. “Dunno, maybe not fuckin’ leave me high and dry!”

It exploded out of Alan without warning. _“You left first!”_

He could see the minute that awful realisation hit Dave, the fury on his face slowly crumbling into deep hurt and sorrow. And Alan felt every ounce of it weighing on him too, knowing that he’d dredged up the pain of those memories for Dave, memories he must have worked so hard in recovery to put behind him.

But Alan had suffered too. He’d sat in the studio for endless hours upon days, doing all the work with Flood, missing Dave so intensely that it had hurt like a hole in his chest, like something that had been punched out of him. He’d lost his greatest ally, his best friend. And now that he’d finally gotten Dave back, he was losing him all over again.

“I’m really sorry,” Alan finally said, running his hands through his hair in frustration. This was really the last thing Dave needed right now. “Fuck, this is so-- this is why I didn’t want to talk about this. Now do you understand?”

Dave didn’t say anything. He walked to one of the windows, propping it open before he reached into his pockets and pulled out his case of cigarillos. Alan watched Dave as he attempted to light one with shaking hands. After several failed tries, Dave finally took a deep drag on it with visible relief.

They stood there in a long, awful silence, Alan regretting his outburst as Dave stared out at the front gate with unseeing eyes. “I didn’t mean to leave first,” Dave said in a quiet voice. His fingers were absently rubbing against the inside of his arms, where his old track marks might reside.

 _You’re leaving now_ , Alan wanted to say. But he bit the words back. Distantly, they could hear the bell jingle above the flap in the back door. Striped must have returned to the house from her morning prowl.

“I’m going to say goodbye,” Dave said, his voice low and hoarse. Alan knew what he was referring to, so it was his turn to stare out of the window as Dave headed for the kitchen. Soon Alan could hear the low murmurs of Dave talking lovingly to Striped, telling her to be a good girl and to look after Alan.

When Dave returned to the living room, his eyes were reddened and his mouth a thin grim line. He headed for his bag, his hand hovering over it before he suddenly turned and made a surprising beeline for Alan, whose heart was thudding in his chest. Alan quickly averted his gaze, staring down at his hands.

Dave spoke first. “I have to know. You-- you regretted kissing me?” he asked, something strange in his voice. _Like he's sad_ , Alan suddenly thought.

Alan shifted on his feet. He couldn’t even bear to think about losing Dave’s friendship, despite whatever stupid feelings he’d latched onto along the way. "It was a mistake," Alan said, although he sounded less certain to himself this time.

“Look at me, then,” Dave said. His voice seemed brittle, like it was on the verge of cracking. “Look me in the eye and tell me it didn’t mean anything.”

It took a Herculean effort for Alan to force himself to look at Dave. There was no trace of anger on Dave’s face at all, the kind that indicated he was on the verge of an outburst. Instead Dave looked shaken and confused, as though he was trying to make his mind up about something. He stared at Alan, waiting as though Alan held all the answers in the palm of his hand.

And Alan didn’t.

 _I can’t do this to him,_ Alan realised with startling clarity that made his throat dry as sand. Dave needed to go see his son, to go back to New York and continue with recovery. Alan had no right to get in the way and muddle things up for Dave, not when he had a clear path ahead of him.

Alan fought to make his throat work. It took him a few tries. “You should go.”

Dave’s head dropped, like a puppet whose strings had been suddenly cut. He looked stricken, his throat working as he swallowed again and again, mouth pursed tight. Then he started scrubbing his face violently, as though something had gotten into his eyes.

Alan ignored the wild impulse to wrap his arms around Dave, to shield him from everything and everyone who wanted to hurt him - including Alan himself. Instead, Alan wrenched his gaze away, staring down at Dave’s overnight bag on the sofa and reminding himself that Dave was needed elsewhere.

“Okay,” Dave finally said, squaring his shoulders as though to prepare for battle. “I’m, um, I’m going to go, then.”

“Give Jack my love.” Alan was amazed at how calm he sounded, given the turmoil churning in his stomach. “And-- take care. Have a safe flight.” He wanted to ask Dave to call him once he was in New York, but Alan didn’t think he was in a position to make any demands at the moment.

Dave was only nodding as he picked up his bag, his car keys in hand. “Thank you for everything, Al.”

“You’re welcome here anytime,” Alan said. He was on the verge of throwing in a reference to their sex dungeon joke, but he thought it might be in poor taste, especially after he’d embarrassingly thrown himself at Dave last night.

Something painful crossed Dave’s features but it was gone in a flash. “Thanks, mate. But-- yeah, maybe not for a while.”

The words hurt a lot more than Alan let on. He kept his expression impassive, even though it seemed he’d truly inflicted irreparable damage on their friendship. “I understand,” Alan said quietly. “Do what you need to, to get better.”

Opening the garage doors, he accompanied Dave to his Porsche, watching as Dave threw his bag onto the passenger seat. It was a cold October morning, with grey clouds and rain looming on the horizon. Alan hoped Dave would make it to Basildon in time. It’d only felt like yesterday when Dave had turned up on his doorstep, hoping Alan wouldn’t turn him away. And now, a month later, it seemed like Dave couldn’t get away fast enough. Alan couldn’t quite blame him.

“Drive safe,” Alan said lamely, because the real words he wanted to say were burning in the back of his throat.

Dave flashed him a tired smile as he got into the car, although it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Take care, Al.” It didn’t escape Alan’s notice that Dave hadn’t called him ‘Charlie’ once today. Alan swallowed the lump in his throat as he backed off, giving Dave’s car room to maneuver out of the garage.

Once Dave was ready, Alan pressed the button on the remote to open the gates. Giving Alan a sad little wave, Dave slid on his sunglasses and drove out steadily, his face as still as stone. Once he was gone, Alan shut the gates and took a deep, shaky breath before heading back into the house.

He needed a stiff drink.

***

**1983 - Bangkok, Thailand**

Don Muang Airport was everything and nothing like all the other airports they’d traipsed through during the tour. Alan might not have even noticed the difference if it weren’t for the Thai announcements booming through the airport, or the numerous gift shops laden with Thai delicacies and souvenirs of tiny wooden elephants. Alan had stuffed his luggage with more than enough dried mangoes and coconut sweets for Jeri and Jason, along with some bigger gifts that Daryl had helped him to store with the rest of the band’s bulk luggage.

It had been an eye-opening trip for him and the other lads, to say the least. Alan had always wanted to visit the Far East, and he’d been very pleased when Dan Silver had managed to book some engagements for them in Japan, Hong Kong and Thailand. But it was the last country that had left the biggest impact; Alan had never witnessed such abject poverty before, the streets full of kids dressed in rags who chased after them for something as little as a few pence. He knew Dave, Martin and Fletch had been similarly affected, for they’d called a band meeting last night in Martin’s room where they’d all vowed to write more socially conscious lyrics from now on.

Someone plopped heavily onto the hard airport seat beside his. It was Dave, blessed with a deep rich tan from all the surfing he had done when they’d been in Pattaya. “Al, I’m hungry,” Dave wheedled, plastering on his best winning grin for Alan.

“Again?” Alan sighed before reaching for his wallet. Dave had emptied out his own for all the street kids he’d come across, so Alan had quietly taken on the task of paying for his meals and drinks. “You should go to the doctor and get that black hole you call a stomach checked out.”

“I’m a growing lad,” Dave said cheekily, before nicking the 100-baht note Alan was taking out of his wallet and running off to the nearest snack shop.

“You’re bloody twenty years old!” Alan yelled out after him as Dave only cackled in response. At least he came back a while later with some crisps and a bottle of Coke for Alan, slipping down into the seat next to him again. Behind them, they could hear Martin laughing loudly as Daryl groaned in despair; Fletch had started a cutthroat poker game since their flight had been delayed. Alan hadn’t joined in, still a bit too cautious to mingle when he hadn’t been invited. He was surprised Dave hadn’t taken part as well and was choosing to keep Alan company instead.

“Mmm, this is good, want some?” Dave held up a bottle of some drink that almost looked neon orange. Alan took a sniff before trying a sip. It was some ridiculously sweet mango concoction that made Alan shudder, Dave laughing at him all the way. “Oh come on Al, it’s not that bad,” he chided Alan, before taking off his sunglasses and peering at the label, which was all in Thai anyway. “It’s not that sweet.”

“I don’t even understand how you don’t already have diabetes,” Alan said.

“Don’t be jealous, old man,” Dave teased him. Now that his sunnies were off, Alan noticed that Dave’s black eye was already fading. It was the result of a brawl Dave had gotten into with a businessman who had callously stepped over a pregnant beggar on the streets outside their hotel. After more than a year with the band, Alan was quickly learning that Dave needed little provocation to fly off the handle. However, he thought he could approve of the reason behind Dave’s most recent skirmish. Dave had a massive heart, and Alan was starting to find himself the main recipient of Dave’s endless goodwill and friendship. It made sense, given how close Fletch and Mart already were, but Alan thought he would have regarded Dave as a good friend even if they’d known each other outside the band.

“Here.” Alan handed Dave his own crisps, when Dave had finished his and still looked hungry. “This might hold you until the plane. Or the next five minutes, at least.”

“Cheers, Al.’ Dave started inhaling the crisps, which made Alan smile to himself. “So what are you looking forward to most when you get home?”

“Jeri and Jason,” Alan said. “Sleep, cool weather, food that doesn’t burn your tongue off.”

“Me too.” Dave leaned back and stretched, his legs falling open as he sprawled out. Alan was getting used to this too, Dave being completely unaware about personal space. Normally Alan would mind, but if it meant that Dave was becoming immensely comfortable with him, then he could hardly complain. “Can’t wait to see Jo, see my mum and the twins. And get a proper pint. Just-- being home, basically.”

“It’ll be weird, though,” Alan said, thinking about returning to normal life in England and not having to adhere to a set schedule, not having a gig (and an afterparty) to look forward to every night. Although it was already his second tour with the band, it was his first as a full-fledged member. It felt vastly different, being included as one of the lads and not having to fear if they’d drop him the moment they got home. “How do you do it?”

“Do what?” Dave shifted so he was focusing on Alan now. Dave was often easily distracted and always fidgety, so it felt strange to be on the receiving end of his full attention now.

“Just...say goodbye, y’know? Drop everything and return to normal life?” Alan let out a little laugh. “And this sounds so silly, but-- I even think I’m going to miss you lot. We’ve been seeing each other almost non-stop the last few months, and then, poof! It’s like going cold turkey, or something.”

“Well, yeah, I dunno, you get used to it, I suppose.” Dave sounded thoughtful. “Usually by the end of the tour, everyone’s sick of each other and wanting to fuck off for a few weeks’ break. But-- I know what you mean. It feels like we all really bonded on this one, you know? I mean, it was your first proper tour, with us as a proper member.”

“And it was our first time to the Far East,” Alan added. “I know it’s cheesy but-- I’m glad I saw these places with you lads.”

“Me too.” Dave smiled at him, sliding his arm around the back of Alan’s chair. “Don’t worry, Al. Saying goodbye’s the easy part. We can meet up before we have to head back into the studio. Come round to Bas, yeah? Jo would love to see you. My mum too, she wants to meet the new bloke who’s reputed to be even handsomer than me.”

They burst into easy laughter before they heard some announcement with their BA flight number. “All right lads, time to go,” Daryl was calling out, packing up the cards while Fletch was happily counting a colourful stack of Thai baht. “Stop counting your ill-gotten gains, Andy.”

“It’s not my fault you’re crap at cards,” Fletch shot back as Martin laughed. Alan watched all this with a little smile, already sad for the impending farewell. But the slide of Dave’s arm around his shoulders, solid and warm, made Alan feel better, at least.

***

**1997 - New York City, USA**

LaGuardia was just as hellish as Dave remembered it, and it didn’t help that he was fresh off an eight hour flight and operating on less than five hours of sleep. Jack had been sad to see him go, at least until Dave had promised that he would be back in time for Christmas. Already he was trying to think of the best way he could convince Jo to let Jack visit him in New York. But Dave also didn’t want to push his luck too fast, too soon.

Picking up his luggage at the conveyor belt, Dave ended up signing a plane ticket for an excited fan who spotted him but had nothing else for him to autograph. Slipping on his sunglasses, Dave made a beeline for the long, snaking queue of yellow cabs waiting outside LaGuardia, hoping no one else would recognise him. He was really in no mood to chat with anyone, exhausted and shattered and feeling like he wanted to just sleep for days. Thankfully, the taciturn cab driver seemed equally reluctant to talk, aside from repeating Dave’s Tribeca address and asking if Dave minded him listening to the Yankees game on the radio. Dave merely gave him a tired little wave, sinking into the (probably filthy) back seat and staring blankly out of the window.

For the last few days, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Alan’s fucking kiss.

Of course, his mind had been running through the argument they’d had too on the morning he’d left. He hated how he’d left things with Alan, and he deeply regretted forcing Alan to talk about the kiss when it was clear that it had barely meant anything to him. Alan had been perfectly willing to move on and act as though everything was normal, and Dave was the one who’d held onto blind hope and fractured their friendship in the process.

“Fuck,” Dave groaned, rubbing his face. The driver, being a typical New York cabbie, merely turned up the baseball game and ignored his passenger.

Dave felt like he’d aged a hundred years by the time the cab dropped him outside his building in Tribeca. As it was a Saturday night, the neighbourhood was quieter than normal. A few residents were out and about, jogging or walking their dogs or on their way home from dinner, but the office workers who typically flooded the financial district would only return on Monday morning. For now, it felt like he had the place to himself. It reminded him a little of the peace and quiet of Chichester. 

The doorman recognised him and held the door open for Dave, promising to send his luggage to the penthouse. So Dave headed up first, desperately needing a shower and a smoke. One of the building’s staff sent up his mail along with his bags, and Dave threw the stack onto the coffee table. The place looked empty, muted, devoid of life.

This was his flat, but it felt _nothing_ like home.  
  


***  
  


Settling back into New York had been far more difficult than Dave had imagined. At first he tried going through the motions: going for his morning runs, visiting his favourite bagel place, getting his groceries from the Whole Foods down the street, taking long walks around his old neighbourhood in the West Village. When that hadn’t worked, he made numerous phone calls back to England and racked up a ridiculous amount of long distance charges. Jack was happy to hear from him, as were his mum and a few other friends.

More than a few times, Dave found himself dialling Alan’s number before he quickly hung up. _That way pain lies,_ he reminded himself. So he didn’t call, and lay in bed most nights, missing Alan and Striped immensely.

Filling his spare bedroom with art supplies, Dave did his best to keep busy by continuing all the painting he’d done in Chichester, trying not to think about how the room was too small, how its windows didn’t let in enough sun. He hung a window box outside his kitchen to try and grow herbs, but already he yearned for his plants, the ones he’d nursed back to life and the ones he’d coaxed from mere seeds to full saplings.

Most evenings, he’d walk down to the Hudson and sit on one of the benches dotted along the riverside, nursing a bottle of Perrier and wishing his seat wasn’t just a poor substitute for a porch swing. During sunsets, the sky did not turn a beautiful salmon pink here. Once it became dark, Dave looked up at the night sky, but it was far too bright for any stars to be visible. Despite his better instincts, he couldn’t stop thinking about that last night with Alan at East Head, the two of them leaning against the hood of Alan’s car like time had stopped, just for them.  
  


***  
  


Dr McConnell was actually very pleased that Dave was managing his recovery well, even though he had missed a few weeks worth of NA meetings. She’d asked about Alan, of course, but Dave had remained tight-lipped, insisting that nothing had happened between them and their friendship would eventually be back on track. Thankfully, Dr McConnell seemed to be far more interested in Dave’s fast-improving relationship with Jack, and to a lesser extent, Jo.

“And are you painting again?” Dr McConnell asked, writing steadily in Dave’s file. She hadn’t stopped writing since Dave began the session, but there must be some visible change in him if she was writing this much.

“Been painting a lot, yeah.” Dave thought about the abandoned paintings he’d stuck in the corner of Alan’s art studio, realising in horror that he’d been so worked up the morning he’d left that he had forgotten to throw them away. “Shit!”

Dr McConnell glanced up at him. “What’s that?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Dave tamped down his momentary panic. There was nothing he could do now, not when he was half a world away. “Yeah, like you said. I painted a whole lot.”

“And singing?” She arched a knowing eyebrow at him, and Dave once again remembered why he’d hated her in the beginning, how she’d known to prod at his weak spots, his hidden bruises. “Have you tried to sing again?”

Dave shifted on the sofa, folding his arms across his chest. “I told you, I can’t anymore.”

“But have you tried?”

“I told you about the last album,” Dave said, trying to keep his tone civil. “We really tried to give it a go, because Mart had some real good songs. But it was all a waste, innit? I could barely finish recording one, let alone an entire album.”

Dr McConnell was studying him intently. “Nothing a good vocal coach can’t fix.”

“Yeah, because I need to be fixed, don’t I?” Dave huffed. “No use to anyone else without my singing.” But he couldn’t stop thinking of Alan’s words to him, how Alan had gotten angry that first evening at his house and insisted that Dave was more than his voice. Alan had seen right into the heart of the problem and treated Dave exactly how he wanted to be treated: as a person, not a commodity or a voice or a body. And now Dave had fucked all that up too, simply because he’d been selfish and had demanded answers from Alan, answers that ended up translating into wishful thinking.

The silence drew out for a while as Dr McConnell kept writing in her files. Finally she closed the folder, steepling her fingers as she looked at Dave. “I think we can continue the next session,” she said quietly. “You are clearly bothered by something beyond the scope of our discussion.”

“Fine.” Dave got up and stalked out of her office, refusing even to stop by the reception and make an appointment for the next time. If they wanted him, they could bloody well call him.

Lighting a cigarillo, Dave turned west and headed in the direction of the Hudson, needing to blow off steam.  
  


***  
  


Dave got home late that night, having popped into Big Mike’s flat in Brooklyn. He’d stayed for dinner, at the insistence of Mike and his wife, and the noise and chaos of their kids running around had been a nice change from the lonely silence of Dave’s own flat. They’d sent him home with fried chicken and plenty of green beans, and Dave’s stomach had actually growled at the prospect of home-cooked food. He’d been surviving off pizza or the convenience food from the bodega downstairs.

Pathetically, Dave hadn’t even realised he’d been subconsciously avoiding meat until he’d been served the fried chicken tonight.

The light on his answering machine was blinking red, so Dave pressed the ‘play’ button before going to keep the food in the fridge. The first message was from the recovery centre, the chirpy receptionist asking him to call back and arrange the next session with Dr McConnell. The second message was from Jack, who was writing a paper on supernovas, which made Dave smile as he listened to the message.

The last message began with a long silence, and Dave was beginning to wonder if it was a prank call when Alan’s voice made him stop in his tracks.

_”So, um, looks like I called at the wrong time. Just-- it’s been a while, so I hope you’re settling nicely back in New York.”_

Here, Alan was interrupted by a loud ‘meow’ that punched a sudden laugh out of Dave’s aching chest.

 _“Yeah, you can see who misses you here. She sits by the door in the mornings, thinking you’ve gone on your runs.”_ Alan cleared his throat. _”Sometimes I find her in the art studio, sitting by the window. She must be wondering why no one’s blasting Motley Crue there anymore.”_

Dave staggered over to the machine, trailing his fingers over the little round speaker.

_”Anyway, just wanted to, uh, see how you are. Take care.”_

Although there was a five hour time difference between England and New York - which meant it was now just past 2am - Dave picked up the phone anyway and dialled the number from memory. He waited as the distant international ringtone began its intermittent beeps, his heart beating in his throat.

It beeped incessantly for quite a long time, and Dave was on the verge of giving up when someone finally picked up. “Hello?” Alan’s voice was low and gravelly with sleep.

“Hey, Al.” Dave tucked the phone between his neck and shoulder, nervously playing with his rings. “Shit, hope I didn’t wake you up.”

“You did, actually.” But Alan’s tone sounded more amused than annoyed. “Doesn’t matter, our little grey friend would have meowed me out of bed at 3am anyway.”

Dave laughed, the anger and frustration of the day - hell, the past week - already fading away. “The audacity of cats, eh?”

“Mmmh.” Alan yawned over the phone. “What time is it over there?”

“Just past nine.”

“Thought you’d be out and about later than that,” Alan said a little too casually.

“Decided to call it a night, so I sent the hookers home early,” Dave said, which made Alan laugh.

They chatted for a bit. Dave told Alan about settling back into New York and his latest check-ins, although Alan had been tellingly silent when Dave had mentioned the part about the vocal coach. In turn, Alan told him about how he had to hire a part-time gardener so he wouldn’t accidentally kill Dave’s plants, and how the studio was almost finished, with Flood coming down to West Sussex next week to help Alan get everything in place.

“Suppose I’d better let you go,” Dave said reluctantly, when Alan yawned again. “I hear it’s bad to interrupt the sleep cycles of the elderly.”

“Oh fuck off,” Alan said flatly as Dave cackled. “I don’t even know why I bother with you.”

“Go to sleep, Al.” Dave just couldn’t stop smiling. “At least, until Striped shoves you out of bed again.”

“All right.” Alan remained silent for a while. “We’ll talk soon, yeah?”

“Yeah, sure thing, mate.”

After they hung up, Dave stared at his phone in disbelief. Unable to still the hammering of his heart, he walked over to his windows and threw them open, lighting a cigarillo and staring out at the dark New York sky. Maybe he couldn't see the stars anymore in this part of the world, but it gave him some comfort to know they were still there.  
  
  



	8. Hanging on Your Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided not to include a flashback for this chapter. There was initially one, but I quickly realised it was a spoiler for what happens later on. The flashbacks will return in the next chapter!
> 
> A massive, massive thank you to pinksyndicate who drew this super cute doodle of [Alan suddenly kissing Dave in Chapter 6!](https://pinksyndication.tumblr.com/post/633460389887229952/youknowhowharditisforme-ive-been-wanting-to)

**1997 - Chichester, UK**

_They were moving around in bed, Dave pinned under him as he moaned into their kiss. Dave’s lips were deceptively soft, his tongue wet and eager in Alan’s mouth as Alan opened up for him. Alan didn’t know whose bed they were in, and he didn’t even care; he was going to explode if he didn’t get Dave’s clothes off him right now, so that they could be skin to skin, Dave naked and panting and moaning in his arms, under his body._

_“Please fuck me, Charlie,” Dave whispered, and Alan nipped at his demanding mouth, soothing the little bites with more kisses. “Need you inside me, please--”_

_“Fuck, yes.” Alan was thrilled at Dave’s breathless laugh, which turned into a moan as Alan slid his hands between Dave’s legs and gripped his cock, stroking it eagerly just to watch Dave unravel under him._

_Dave’s eyes were rolling up in pleasure, his hips thrusting up mindlessly into Alan’s grip. “Fuck, Al, finally--”_

_“You like it?” Alan chuckled as Dave nodded far too eagerly. “God, you’re beautiful.”_

_Dave choked out a laugh. “Have you fuckin’ seen yourself?”_

_Alan bent down, his mouth latching onto Dave’s neck with deep, sucking kisses that left Dave moaning deliriously, unravelling under Alan’s hands--  
_

Alan jerked awake at the insistent beeping of the alarm clock, dry-mouthed and disoriented. His cock was throbbing in his pyjamas, forming an obscene tent in his sheets. He groaned when he realised it had all just been a dream, even though it had felt all too real, Dave’s skin warm under his fingertips.

For some reason he thought back to that morning when he’d woken up in Dave’s bed, their legs tangled together.

Alan flung an arm over his eyes with a sigh, forcing himself to stop thinking about Dave like this. It’d just been a while since he’d gotten laid, that was all. He’d broken up with Nat about six-- no, seven months ago, and they’d been fighting a lot and sleeping in separate beds long before they’d finally called off the engagement. So he really had been having a dry spell for almost a year, if he wanted to be honest with himself. No wonder he was having sex dreams about Dave.

Determined to put this all behind him, Alan took care of business in the shower - very pointedly trying not to think about Dave as he did so - and went about his day as normal. He supervised the studio construction as usual, then after Nowak and his crew departed for the day, Alan got nicely dressed up, picking out his smartest shirt and trousers. His hair was now long enough to slick with gel again, and he styled it somewhat similarly to the way he’d worn it during the Violator tour. He remembered Dave complimenting him on it, running his fingers through Alan’s hair to tease him.

Once Alan was satisfied with his appearance, he made sure Striped was fed before he got into his car and drove into town. There were a few bars on the other side of Chichester that were a lot darker and smokier, a world away from the pubs that he and Dave would frequent for dinner. Alan picked a place that had a live band playing inside, ordering a pint and making himself comfortable at the bar as he surveyed the crowd.

Most of the women in the bar were either with their boyfriends, husbands or a gaggle of girlfriends. His eye fell on a woman around his age who was sitting at the other end of the bar, alone with her wine glass and a book. She was reading ‘Trainspotting’, her brows drawn together in morbid fascination. When another bloke approached her, she smiled apologetically and shook her head, returning to her book as the disappointed man took his leave.

Still, it was worth a try. Alan picked up his pint and made his way over, taking the stool beside hers. Now that he had a closer look, he could see the woman was really quite pretty, her eyes dark and ringed with eyeliner. She wore her black hair in a short, chin-length bob, which she tucked behind her ear. “Good evening, may I buy you a drink?” Alan asked her politely.

When she looked up at him, her eyes warmed in approval before she set aside her book. Bingo. “You may,” she said, her cherry red lips twisting up in amusement. She gestured at her almost empty wine glass. “I had the shiraz.”

After Alan ordered her drink, they got to chatting. Her name was Molly, and she worked as an insurance claims analyst. Since she didn’t seem to recognise him, Alan told her he was in-between jobs, which was not really quite a lie anyway. Still, it didn’t seem to bother Molly that Alan technically wasn’t employed. She kept touching his arm or shoulder, laughing coquettishly at most of his jokes. She had a quick wit about her, which he liked as well.

Unfortunately, Alan felt...nothing. The chatting, the flirting - he was doing everything automatically, like something he’d been trained to do for years. But he felt nary a trace of attraction to poor Molly, not even a jolt of lust or desire. But since she seemed interested in him, he did his best to keep the conversation going. At least he was trying to put himself out there again, which was much better than sulking in his house and having sex dreams about his poor friend.

They left the bar after two more drinks, and Molly suggested going to her flat. Her eyes widened with pleasure when she spotted his convertible, and they talked about cars during the drive back to her place. Alan knew that it was pretty much a sealed deal, as long as he didn’t majorly fuck up or accidentally insult her.

When they arrived outside her building, Alan killed the engine and looked over at her. She smiled at him before leaning over and brushing her lips against his. It barely lasted a second or so, but it was so strange and so _wrong_ that Alan had to pull away.

He still felt nothing for her.

“I’m sorry,” Alan told her sincerely, his hands retreating to the wheel. All he could think about was how soft Dave’s lips had been, how Dave had smelled like paint and aftershave and those cigarillos he kept claiming he wasn’t addicted to. Even though Dave had frozen under Alan’s lips and had not kissed back, Alan had felt an overwhelming surge of desire and lust that was oddly missing here, with this beautiful woman who _did_ want him.

“No, no, it’s-- it’s fine.” Molly flashed him an embarrassed smile. “I thought you might still be getting over someone, you know?”

Alan blinked at her in surprise.

Molly only sighed, brushing her hair back. “I was right, wasn’t I? Just got over a horrible break-up?”

The worst part was that it wasn’t even Nat who was haunting his thoughts. “I should go,” Alan said quietly, keeping his gaze on the dashboard. “Once again, I’m sorry.”

After he made sure Molly was safely upstairs, Alan put his foot on the accelerator and drove all the way to East Head. He spent the rest of the night listening to the crashing waves on the beach and staring up at the starry sky, blasting Portishead on his car speakers and thinking about things he didn't even want to admit to himself.  
  


***  
  


One of Alan’s greatest talents in life was pretending like nothing had happened, so he continued speaking to Dave on the phone as if he hadn’t had that odd dream about him. Dave talked about wanting to start working on his solo record, and Alan mentioned that Flood was coming down the next day to help with the studio. Dave's tone sounded warm enough when he’d told Alan to pass on his regards to Flood; the two of them had always been on good terms, even when things had become increasingly awful during the recording and mixing of SOFAD. As doped up as Dave was, he’d always turned up whenever his vocals were needed, and followed Flood’s directives accordingly. Alan still had goosebumps from when they’d recorded that take of ‘Condemnation’ in the garage at that Madrid villa, Dave's raw yet hauntingly beautiful voice reverberating off the tiled walls. Alan would never forget the looks of astonishment on everyone’s faces: Flood, Martin, Dan, even the engineers.

It made Alan wonder why Dave had found himself unable to sing when the remaining three of them had been trying to make that new album. Alan didn’t want to ask, though; it was clear that it was something that still caused Dave a lot of pain.

The next morning, Flood arrived sometime after breakfast, carrying out various items from his car boot that he’d brought along for Alan’s studio. After he set everything down, they hugged for quite a while, Alan patting him heartily on the back in genuine pleasure. Flood looked much the same, except that his sideburns were turning white. “Don’t tell me we were the cause of that,” Alan teased him, pointing at his grey hair.

“You alone would be enough to turn me bald, mate.” However, Flood’s eyes were trailing over him in concern. “You okay, though?”

Alan tilted his head questioningly. “Don’t I look okay?”

He could see Flood considering something before he dismissed the thought, smiling at Alan again. “Don’t mind me. Now, give me the royal tour of Casa Wilder, then.”

Alan showed him around the house, although he had to pause for a bit before he referred to Dave’s old art studio as another spare room. He hadn’t been back here since Dave’s departure, because it would mean having to throw away Dave’s brushes and paints and palettes, having to come to terms with the fact that Dave was well and truly gone. Flood shot Alan a sharp look when his voice wavered, but he didn’t say anything, keeping quiet until they went down to the basement to join Nowak and the crew in the recording studio.

Flood had many useful comments and suggestions about the studio, as Alan had expected. He was good that way, stepping back to observe the big picture before quietly suggesting adjustments as he saw fit. Nowak, who was used to working with Flood, also took his suggestions with no argument. Before lunchtime, they’d managed to set up the master console and the mixing board; Alan and Flood went about testing the equipment while the electrician hovered behind them, making sure everything was wired right.

Once they were done, a sweaty Flood was mopping his brow with his sleeve when he spotted the painting of Striped that Dave had given him. “This Dave’s work?” he asked Alan, stepping closer to admire the brushwork. “It’s gorgeous.”

“It’s one of his best,” Alan said. He tried not to look at it too much; it made him think about being on the porch swing during sunsets, Striped a heavy, warm weight across their laps.

As Nowak and his team went off for lunch, Alan cooked for Flood while his friend played with Striped, letting her chase a small wand with feathers at the end; Dave had bought it for her when they had first taken her in. “So Dave’s gone back to New York?” Flood asked, wiggling the stick about as Striped merrily pounced on the clump of feathers.

“Yeah, last week.” Once the pasta bake was in the oven, Alan put on the kettle to make tea.

“I was surprised, to be honest,” Flood admitted, reaching out to scratch Striped on the head. “I mean, that he came to stay with you.”

“He’s always meant a lot to me.” Alan took down two mugs, subconsciously avoiding the chipped one that Dave always used. “But it wasn’t always sunshine and roses, y’know? We argued the morning he left.”

“What about?”

“Some of it was about the last album,” Alan said, keeping his voice even as he spooned in a bit of sugar into both mugs before dropping in a tea bag each.

“Oh.” Flood was quiet for a long time. “Not quite forgiven the lot of them yet, eh?”

“It’s not even really about that,” Alan said, surprising Flood - and himself too. “I mean, how healthy is it really to hold onto past grievances? I’ve moved on. And, you know, so have the others. The band doesn’t even exist anymore. And it’s really like a divorce, isn’t it? All parties have to move on and-- y’know, find some kind of peace.”

“Have you?” Flood asked. He genuinely seemed curious, studying Alan with that gentle, assessing gaze of his.

Alan opened his mouth to answer, but at the last moment the words fell away. He had never, ever lied to Flood; when you’d been down in the trenches and bled out with someone like he had with Flood, it seemed only respectful to owe them nothing but the absolute truth. “I thought I did,” Alan admitted. He'd survived his unhappiest moments by promising himself that he'd make a better reality for himself, and that was exactly what he had done. Now he had his own house with his own home studio, a dream of his ever since he’d been a starving teenager.

He’d made it reality now, and all he could think of was how his bloody real estate agent had been right: the house was indeed too big for one person.  
  


***  
  


Flood elected to stay on long after Nowak and his workers left for the day, and Alan felt similarly inspired to keep slogging, since they were both getting so much done. It was a lot more fun to be working together like this, without a deadline hanging over them, or the knowledge that other people were off slacking while he and Flood were slaving away. They often stopped to reminisce about funny things that had happened in the past, but Flood had new stories too about Rose and the kids. Alan couldn’t help the twinge of envy he felt, seeing how Flood had managed to strike a balance between his professional and family life.

They were almost done in the studio, but Flood had one last suggestion about moving in some kind of long table into the control room where they could set up the tape decks behind the mixing board instead of the other end of the panel. “Oh that’s a really good idea, actually,” Alan said thoughtfully. “I’ll pop into town tomorrow and find a furniture store.”

“Actually, I think I saw a table upstairs in your spare room that might do nicely,” Flood suggested, pushing up his glasses. “If we get it down here now, I could help you wire everything up by tonight.”

“You sure?” Alan already felt bad for all the effort Flood was going to. “That’s really good of you, cheers mate.”

Flood waved him away. “Don’t thank me till you’ve received the invoice.”

As they headed upstairs, Alan tried to keep a straight face as Flood made a beeline for Dave’s old art studio. Perhaps now was as good a time as any to start gutting it, then. Maybe Alan could dismantle everything except the stereo system, then use the place as a proper office instead of doing all his work in the music library. Flood turned on the lights and walked over to the table, tugging out one end before dislodging something - several things - that fell down with a thud.

“What’s all this?” Flood’s eyes widened as he picked up the fallen items; Alan realised they were the extra canvases he’d bought for Dave to paint on. Except-- they weren’t empty, judging from how Flood was staring at them with his mouth open.

Alan quickly jogged over so he could get a look for himself. There were quite a few half-finished paintings, plus a completed one of Alan’s house that Dave must have done as a back-up if Alan hadn’t liked the painting of Striped. “Fuck, this is beautiful,” Flood exclaimed, running his fingers over the edge of the canvas. “Why didn’t you hang this up?”

“I didn’t even know it was here,” an astounded Alan said. Flood shot him an odd look before he continued going through the abandoned canvases.

There were about six in total, and two of them had been left blank. The remaining four had random subjects: Alan’s house as mentioned, a portrait of Keith Richards that made Alan smile, and one of a beach that looked very much like East Head, Dave’s strokes getting clumsy around the sand dunes which was where he must have given up.

But the last half-finished painting took Alan’s breath away.

“Fucking hell,” Flood breathed out, staring at the canvas. It was a blond, mulleted Dave shyly peeking down, while Alan next to him was leaning in, smiling slyly at Dave. “It’s so familiar...wasn’t this when you lot were recording Some Great Reward in-- London, was it?”

“It was in Berlin.” Alan’s voice sounded very faraway, even to himself. He remembered every detail of that photoshoot, even though it had been years and years ago. “At Hansa.”

Flood picked it up, propping the canvas up on the table. “Pity he didn’t finish it,” Flood remarked. “Would have looked great in your studio, yeah?”

“I can’t believe it,” Alan found himself saying. He was still gawking at the painting. “I can’t believe he bloody remembered this photo.”

The odd tone had returned to Flood’s voice. “Really? Huh.”

Alan tore his eyes off the painting to glance at Flood, who was suspiciously silent. “You don’t seem very surprised by all this.”

Flood gave him one of his patented ‘duh’ looks. “Well-- yeah, I’m not,” he said a little awkwardly. “You mean you are?”

Between Flood’s very weird reaction and the revelation of Dave’s hidden cache of unfinished paintings, Alan’s head was spinning. “What do you mean?”

Flood lifted his shoulder in a shrug, adjusting his glasses. “I mean, I always thought Dave was always a little-- well, _fond_ of you, no?”

Alan just stared at him.

“He was, right?” Now Flood was the one who looked confused. “Or was I mistaken all this time?”

Alan didn’t even know what to say. He just kept staring at Flood, who seemed to be increasingly perplexed as he looked back and forth between Alan and the unfinished painting.

After a long time, Alan finally found his voice again. “I didn’t-- I had no idea.”

Flood’s mouth was a round ‘o’ of realisation. “Sorry, mate. I thought you knew, but-- dunno, thought you were ignoring it or something.”

Alan’s mind was now racing through the events on the morning Dave had left, how Dave had insistently asked him if the kiss had meant anything. Now that Alan was seeing it all through a new lens, he was suddenly filled with the awful realisation that Dave had been trying to confirm Alan’s feelings, not reject them. “Fucking hell,” Alan breathed out. He couldn’t believe what a colossal idiot he’d been.

Flood was eyeing him. “You alright?” he asked carefully. “Y’know what, forget I mentioned anything. Sorry. Just-- not my place, yeah?”

They fell silent after that, both of them carrying down the table to the basement before Flood helped to set up the tape decks as he promised. Once they were done for the night, Alan offered him the guest bedroom, but Flood apologetically rejected the offer, saying he had to get back home to Rose and the kids. Alan was a little selfishly relieved, because he seriously needed some time alone to sit down and absorb everything that had happened today.

After Flood left for the drive back to London, Alan went to fetch the half-finished painting of him and Dave at Hansa, propping it up against one of the empty shelves in his music library. Then he dug out his prized bottle of HIBIKI 21 that he’d bought in Kyoto seven years ago, pouring himself a generous serving of the whiskey in a glass tumbler before putting on a Nick Cave CD that Dave had left behind. Striped padded into the music library at that opportune moment, so Alan picked her up before taking a seat in the leather wingback, sipping his whiskey.

Alan stared at the unfinished painting, Striped’s fur soft against his fingertips as he started sorting out the thoughts flying through his head. He still hadn’t quite absorbed Flood’s bombshell, along with Dave’s unfinished Hansa painting. He stared at it now, wondering if Dave had painted it from memory or if he had a copy of the photo, like Alan did. The actual picture was probably lost somewhere deep in his archives that took up most of his attic, years and years of DM memorabilia that Alan had meticulously saved over the years along with his old Emulators and other equipment. Suddenly Alan was tempted to start combing through everything with a fine-toothed comb, to find more proof of Dave being, well, _fond_ of him, as Flood had so diplomatically said.

One thing was clear, though: Alan needed a plan.  
  


***  
  


_(Copyright: Michael Putland, 1984)_  
  


***

**  
1997 - New York City, USA**

Dave sipped his diet coke, glancing around the crowded ballroom. He’d agreed to give an anti-drugs speech at this Community Youth event mostly as a favour to Big Mike, but now he was stuck at the after-party and trying not to yawn while making small talk with people he barely knew. Although it was just past ten, Dave was already exhausted; getting tired easily was something the doctors in recovery had warned him about, since he’d done irreparable damage to most of his internal organs after all those years of abuse.

He was just about to hand off his glass to the bartender and make his goodbyes when someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Fancy seeing you here, mate.”

All of Dave’s senses were on high alert upon hearing another British accent in New York. When he turned to see who it was, his eyes narrowed. “How the hell did you get in here?” Dave blurted out, ignoring the curious looks from the people around them.

Over the years, the band had met their fair share of journalists. Dave had even become friendly with a handful of them, but there were an infamous few that the band universally loathed. Standing right in front of him now was the one Dave hated the most: Simon Farradays, editor of ‘Soundwaves’ which was a UK tabloid rag masquerading as a legitimate music mag. He’d gotten onto Dave’s shitlist by constantly slagging off all their records, then blaming Alan for the band’s break-up.

Simon smirked at him, sipping from his martini. He’d hardly changed over the years, still tall and blond and smug. Alan had referred to him as Simon Ferret-Face. “Thought you’d be happy to see a familiar face, Dave,” he said smoothly.

“Well, you can fuck off.” A pissed-off Dave looked around for Big Mike or one of the security staff.

“If you’re trying to get me thrown out, don’t bother.” Simon held up his press pass, which was clipped onto a lanyard dangling around his neck. “I was invited. Speaking of invites, guess where your press agent invited me to stick my head when I requested for an exclusive tell-all with you when you got out of rehab. Go on, guess.”

“I imagine Chris told you to go shove it up your arse,” Dave said vehemently. He set his glass down on a passing waiter’s tray. “If you’re not leaving, then I am.”

Simon just laughed. “Oh come on, don’t be a spoilsport--”

Dave was incredibly tempted to flip him off as he left, but he’d managed to control himself as he marched out of the venue. Still, it was a close thing.  
  


***  
  


The encounter with Ferret-Face had left Dave a little rattled, but he refused to allow it to affect his efforts to settle back into New York. He was doing well with treatment, meeting up with old friends, buying and rearranging furniture for his penthouse loft, painting a bit (but not as much as he’d done in Chichester) and even starting to write more again. It was something Alan had always encouraged him to do, even back during happier times in the band, and Dave had toyed with the idea of releasing a solo record. It wasn’t something he would have dared to consider before, but after he’d almost died, he knew he needed to at least give it a go while he still had the chance.

Alan agreed with him during their nightly phone calls. “No harm just looking up studios and session musicians,” he said so reasonably that Dave was glad they were on talking terms again. “Besides, you should strike while the iron is hot. People still want to hear material from you and Mart.”

“What about you?” Dave swung his legs up to rest them on his coffee table, staring at Bosch’s ‘The Harrowing of Hell’ which was displayed above his telly. He’d bought it at Christie’s seven years ago with what Fletch had called their ‘Violator money’. “I’m sure people are dying to get their hands on the next Recoil record.”

Alan chuckled self-deprecatingly. “Yeah, they’re breaking down the door everyday, demanding ‘Bloodline 2: The Bloodening’.”

Dave laughed. “Come on, mate. I liked it a lot, at least.”

“Liar,” Alan scoffed. “I know I sent you a copy, but you’re using it as a coaster, aren’t you?”

“Oh yeah?” Dave cleared his throat before easily mimicking Douglas’ baritone: “ _If your body’s feeling bad, and it’s the only one you have…_ ”

“Alright, alright, I believe you.” Alan sounded very warm, very pleased. “So, don’t change the subject-- your solo record.”

“I know, I know.” Dave let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair. Sitting here, with Alan’s voice in his ear and thinking about when Alan had given him a haircut, Dave found himself missing Alan more than ever. “Hey, Al?”

He could hear Alan stifling a yawn, his voice getting a little softer around the edges. “Yeah?”

“Nothing.” Dave started plucking lint off his jeans. “Go to bed, old man. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Alright.” Alan sounded sleepy but reluctant. “Flood’s coming over tomorrow morning, I have to be up bright and early.”

“Give him my love.”

After they said their goodbyes, Dave hung onto the receiver for a little bit longer, thinking about what Alan had said about his solo material. Alan had always been his biggest supporter in the band, urging Dave to approach Martin about letting him share some of the songwriting duties right around the period when they were making ‘Masses’. Alan had always believed in him, even though Dave was given to intense bouts of doubt and self-loathing. Even when things had gone wrong between all of them, Dave had never quite stopped writing for himself. Now that the band was done, Dave thought it might be a sign for him to finally try and step out of Martin’s admittedly intimidating shadow. With Alan’s encouragement, that first step did not seem quite so daunting.

He finally put down the receiver, sighing to himself. Maybe Alan might change his mind if he discovered that a good chunk of Dave’s lyrics were about him in the first place.  
  


***  
  


So far, Dave had run into Ferret-Face two more times in New York: the first was at the opening of an art gallery in the Upper East Side that a friend had invited him to, and the other was at some rock gig at a club in Midtown. Both times, Simon had tried to approach him again to ask about an interview, and both times Dave had flipped him the bird and stalked off. He was beginning to be a little worried about Ferret-Face (or any other journalists) finding out where he lived in Tribeca, so Dave had warned the building staff who promised they would be more vigilant.

In the meantime, Dave spoke to both Dan and Kess at length about the possibility of a solo record, and both of them made encouraging noises about it. Kess even put him in touch with Knox, a session guitarist who had worked with the Psychedelic Furs and the Banshees, and Dave called the bloke for a brief chat over the phone. Knox seemed very funny and laid-back, and his storied resume was nothing to sniff at either. Dave promised they would be in touch soon for a proper session.

Now, the problem was his voice. He hadn’t been able to complete the recordings for ‘Ultra’, so he could foresee the same issues if he meant to go through with this and record his own album.

“You need a vocal coach? We’ll get you a coach, man.” Big Mike nodded confidently as Dave sighed. They were at a Park Slope playground, watching Mike’s kids terrorising each other on the jungle gym while Dave and Mike ate hot dogs. “Ain’t nothin’ to it. Plenty of vocal coaches in New York.”

“Dunno why I was so averse to the idea when McConnell suggested it,” Dave admitted, picking out the relish from his toppings. “Think it’s because I felt like she wanted to fix me or something, y’know.”

Mike chortled, finishing his hotdog in two bites. “Dude, that’s her job,” he reminded Dave with his mouth full. “Let the good lady do her job. Why you gotta butt heads with her all the time, huh?”

Dave eyed him. “What did she say to you about me?”

Mike lifted an eyebrow at him. It reminded him so much of Alan that Dave was hit by a sudden pang of longing. “You’re crazier than you look if you think I’m gonna tell you.”

“Fuck off,” Dave said with a chuckle, as Mike swatted at his head. They watched the kids play for a while, and Dave thought of Jack with a little smile.

“So how’s your kid?” Mike asked.

“He’s good, really good.” Dave started playing with his rings. “He just fell in love with the guitar, so I got him one and had it shipped to him. The constant practising drives my ex-wife mad.”

“Things good between you and her?” Mike said, his face serious. “She trusting you again?”

“Seems like it.” Dave couldn’t help peeling off a tiny black flake of nail polish. “I’ve been working up the nerve to ask her to let Jack visit me here someday, y’know?”

“Baby steps, my man,” Mike said sagely. “Don’t rush things. You doin’ good. Others can see that, just give it time. You gonna go back to England or somethin’?”

“For the holidays, yeah.” Dave reached for his cigarillo case, taking one out and offering it to Mike, who shook his head with distaste. “Gonna see Jack and my family and-- yeah, basically.”

“Wait wait, hold up.” Mike narrowed his eyes at Dave. “What was that?”

“What was what?”

“You were gonna say something else, but stopped.” It was uncomfortable, being under Mike’s scrutiny like this. “You gonna go see your friend again? That dude from your band?”

“Dunno, really,” Dave said honestly, lighting his cigarillo. “Things were-- I think it might be a bit awkward now.”

“Why?”

Dave told Mike what happened. By the time he was done, Mike’s eyes were as round as saucers. “Dude--”

“I know, I know,” Dave said placatingly.

“Did you tell any of this to Dr McConnell?” Mike asked, his brow furrowed in an uncharacteristic frown.

“Of course not,” Dave said with a sharp laugh. “She’s gonna tell me to stay the fuck away from Al, or whatever. Like what you’re gonna do now, probably.”

Here, Mike’s eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise. “Why would I do that?”

Dave took a deep drag of his cigarillo, blowing out a stream of smoke. “Some shit about how recovering addicts need stability to get better, y’know?”

“Okay, I gotta be real with you,” Mike said with a sigh. “We sponsors are supposed to be, like, role models and all that, y’know? But haven’t you been in love with this dude for like a million years or somethin’? If this is a real chance for happiness for you, then why you gotta give it up?”

Dave found himself blinking at Mike’s sincere outburst. “He said he regretted kissing me,” he said numbly.

Mike rolled his eyes. “C’mon, I don’t care what a man says, you gotta look at his actions. He took you in, then he made that art studio for you? And now you’re telling me that he kissed you first? Goddamn, if you two ain’t the stupidest mofos to ever walk God’s green earth, son.”

Speechless for once, Dave just watched Mike sadly shaking his shaggy head, at least until one of his kids pushed the other down and they started screaming for his attention. ‘Think on what I said, huh?” Mike said, tempering his severity with a paternal pat on Dave’s knee before he went over to mollify his crying kids.  
  


***  
  


After that, Dave took the subway back to Tribeca, stopping by the Hudson on his way home because he needed to think. He strolled down the riverside with his hands in his pockets, his mind furiously going over what Big Mike had bluntly spelled out for him. Dave couldn’t help recounting what had happened on the morning he’d left Alan’s house, how Alan had been so miserable and Dave had chalked it up to Alan regretting the kiss and wishing it had never happened.

Now he turned it over on its head, examining it from a different angle: Alan being miserable because...he _didn’t_ regret the kiss? Because he hadn’t wanted Dave to leave?

“Holy fuck,” Dave exclaimed to himself, reeling with shock as his feet came to a complete stop. Two joggers running towards him gave him dirty looks and stepped around him, but he hardly noticed them.

After that, he couldn’t hurry back to his flat quickly enough. He headed straight upstairs, picking up the phone and dialling Alan’s number immediately. It beeped for quite a long time before it went to his machine. Making a frustrated noise, Dave hung up and tried again, checking his watch. Although Flood was at Alan’s house today to help with the studio, he surely would have left by now. Two more calls, but Dave still couldn’t get through. He left a half-hearted message on Alan’s machine, asking him to return his call.

The next day, Alan hadn’t yet called back, and Dave was beginning to get paranoid. Despite the different timezones, he and Alan had always managed a daily chat over the past week, so Alan’s silence was starting to get very worrying. Dave did his best to power through the day by relying on his daily routine: his morning run, a bagel and coffee at his favourite cafe, a visit to Rough Trade in Brooklyn to pick up some new records (he had to leave after a small crowd started trailing him around the shop) and picking up some art supplies in the Village. When he got back, the first thing he did was check his answering machine for messages, but his heart sank when he realised there was nothing from Alan.

Because Dave was a glutton for punishment, he tried calling Alan’s number again. As expected, no one picked up.

Although there were many reasonable answers for Alan’s silence - for example, he could have followed Flood back to London and stayed for a few days - Dave’s mind was going to some very dark places. He knew he had to fight it before it could spiral out of control and make him run back to very old and very bad coping mechanisms, so he turned on the loudest and angriest music he had, taking up a fresh canvas and blindly painting something - anything - so he could forget how desperately he wanted a drink, how badly he wanted to pick up the phone and call his old dealer.

The urges died down by the time he finished his painting, and he was startled to realise he’d lost track of time - it was almost midnight. His growling stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so he washed the paint off his hands with thinner and threw on his jacket. He hurried down to the bodega downstairs, ignoring the alcohol section as best as he could and picking up more Perrier instead, along with a hot sandwich from the deli counter and some crisps.

He was walking back to his building when he spotted the doorman waving at him frantically, stopping him just outside the doors. “Hey, Mr G!”

“All right, Ronnie?” Dave wondered why the doorman wasn’t letting him in.

“Look, remember you told us about a possible security risk?” the doorman said urgently, before gesturing towards the lobby. “You said there was a, um-- British journalist who’s been following you, right? Five minutes ago, a man came in, asking to see you. He spoke with a British accent, keeps insisting he knows you.”

“Fuck.” Dave rolled his eyes. To top off his shitty week, now it seemed Simon Ferret-Face had finally managed to uncover Dave’s address. “Thanks mate. Could one of you call the police while I go in to confront him?”

The doorman nodded. “Yeah, but-- I don’t think it’s safe for you to go in and talk to him, Mr G.”

“No, fuck that.” Dave was exhausted and tired and battered, and he was spoiling for a fight with someone. “You guys call the cops, I’ll go in and give him a piece of my mind.”

“Er--” the doorman began, but Dave was already pushing the doors open.

He could hear the commotion before he saw what was going on. Two of the security staff were trying to restrain someone in the lobby who was blocked from Dave’s view. All of them were talking very loudly and agitatedly, but Dave’s ears pricked up at one of the voices, which was very, very familiar. Then the security guards moved away and Dave finally saw who it was, almost dropping his paper bag from the bodega.

“Al?” Dave sputtered.  
  
  



	9. Nobody Knows Me as Well as You Do

**1997 - New York City, USA**

“Al? What the hell are you doing here?”

Dave was crossing the lobby towards them, clutching a crumpled paper bag and gawking at Alan in complete and utter disbelief. Up close, Alan could see that the dark circles under Dave’s eyes were especially pronounced, and there were flecks of paint in his hair and on his hands. Dave looked utterly exhausted, a right mess - yet Alan could hardly take his eyes off him, greedily devouring the familiar, well-loved lines of him. Alan hadn’t even realised how much he’d missed Dave until right this moment, staring at Dave in a strange apartment lobby half a world away from home.

“I thought-- we needed to talk,” Alan said, which made Dave’s eyebrows shoot upwards.

One of the security guards snorted. “Ever heard of the phone, buddy?”

Dave’s brow creased in irritation, and Alan sensed he was likely on the verge of blurting out something rude and inappropriate. Alan quickly gestured towards the two guards to distract Dave. "Could you please tell Starsky and Hutch here to calm down?"

“It’s all right,” Dave told them, not once taking his eyes off Alan. “He’s my-- he’s a good friend.”

The two guards and the doorman were now exchanging wary looks, but Alan didn’t care in the least. Instead he just kept drinking in the sight of Dave, who still seemed perplexed and unsure, but there was a strange light in his eyes that told Alan his visit was not at all unwelcome.

“Sorry about that, Mr G,” the doorman said, nudging the two guards with a frown and gesturing for them to leave Alan and Dave alone. Which they did, after one last confused glance at both of them before they disappeared into the security office.

Dave’s shoulders sagged with relief. “So-- upstairs?” he said, as though it was the most natural thing in the world for Alan to turn up in his lobby after an eight-hour flight and another hour in the taxi, crawling through horrific New York traffic.

“Yeah,” Alan said, picking up his bags. “I’d like that.”  
  


***  
  


Dave was quiet in the lift, holding onto Alan’s carry-on luggage with one hand and his paper bag with the other. It contained something that smelled delicious, reminding Alan he hadn’t eaten since the last meal on the plane with the rubbery cheese sandwich. But he’d come straight from JFK to Dave’s address, food having been the last thing on his mind. Now, as his stomach growled, Alan wished he’d listened to his more pragmatic instincts and stopped for a slice of pizza or something.

At least Dave chuckled when he heard Alan’s stomach rumbling. “You hungry?”

“A little bit.”

Dave lifted the paper bag. “You can have my sandwich. It hasn’t got any meat, I think.” He glanced at Alan a little wistfully. “Is Striped all right?”

“Left her with the Ellises,” Alan explained.

Dave’s face brightened. “Oh yeah, Flood’s got kids now, hasn’t he?”

Alan nodded. “He says hi.”

The lift chimed with a ‘ding’ when it arrived at Dave’s floor, the doors opening to a corridor with only two units. As Dave dug out his keys, Alan gestured towards the other door. “Who’s in that one?”

Dave was now grinning. “To be honest, I’d been hoping to get a famous neighbour, like Bowie or Sting,” he said. “But it’s just some arsehole banker, I think.”

“Pity, then.” Alan followed Dave in as he unlocked the door and turned on the lights. Dave’s flat was really a typical Manhattan penthouse loft like the ones Alan had seen in movies, with high ceilings, wooden beams and floor-to-ceiling windows. Alan made his way over to them, dumping his bag on Dave’s sofa along the way. He was charmed to discover that Dave’s place was graced with a view of the Hudson and the tight sprawl of lower Manhattan. Even though it was already past midnight, the lights in several neighbouring buildings were still on; Alan was reminded of the famous slogan about New York never sleeping. Across the river was the jagged skyline of New Jersey, and further down, Alan could make out the eerie green glow of the illuminated Statue of Liberty. It jolted him a little, reminding him how far from home he really was.

Dave clearing his throat made Alan tear his gaze away from the sight. “I, um, I know we need to talk,” Dave said a little uncertainly. “But first, did you want to--” Here he gestured towards the guest bathroom with raised eyebrows.

“Yeah, I should probably shower.” Alan sniffed his jacket. “Get the smell of recycled plane air off me, y’know?”

“Okay, sure, yeah.” Dave seemed to not know what to do with himself, before he suddenly clapped his hands together. “I’ll go make tea, how’s that?”

Alan could feel all the tension in his shoulders melting away, leaving him loose and relaxed. He was welcome here, in Dave’s home. “Yeah, that’d be grand,” he confessed, which earned him a toothy grin from Dave before he disappeared into the kitchen. Letting out a long sigh, Alan dug out some clothes from his bag before making his way to the shower.

There were fresh towels and still-sealed toiletries in the guest bathroom, which seemed to be the handiwork of a housecleaning service - Alan knew Dave still had the terrible habit of leaving open shampoo and bodywash bottles everywhere. Under the delicious stream of hot water, Alan’s travel weariness, stress and exhaustion melted away in the steam. By the time he emerged from the shower in a jumper and track bottoms, he felt relatively more human.

He was surprised to find that Dave had turned off some of the lights in the flat and dimmed the others, making the atmosphere much more intimate. The kitchen was dark, save for a lamp above the breakfast nook. Dave was perched on top of the kitchen counter, swinging his dangling legs as he ran his fingers over the handle of the electric kettle. He seemed deep in thought.

“Alright?” Alan kept his voice low, barely above a whisper. Dave’s head whipped up, his mouth curving up into a smile when he saw Alan.

“Yeah, tea’s done.” Dave nodded at a steaming mug waiting for Alan on the counter. “You want a bite first?”

Strangely, Alan’s hunger had somewhat dissipated into mild gnawings of peckishness. “Maybe later,” Alan said. He picked up the tea though, sipping it with a sigh as Dave regarded him with a warm look in his eyes.

“So, it’s not that I’m not happy to see you-- trust me, you won’t believe how fuckin’ delighted I am,” Dave said with a little laugh. “But Al, I gotta ask: why are you here?”

 _Alright_ , Alan thought, letting the tea fortify him. _Here goes nothing._

“I found the paintings,” Alan said. He watched as panic and shock wrestled with each other on Dave’s face, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed.

When Dave finally spoke, it sounded like his voice was scraped out of him. “Meant to toss them in the bin.”

“Well.” Alan took a deep breath. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

Dave wasn’t looking at him now. He was staring down at his hands, twisting one of his rings around and around his finger. His jaw was clenched so tight that Alan could see the muscles in his cheek twitching.

“So, to answer your question,” Alan continued, his heart racing in his chest and his head fuzzy with exhaustion, “I’m here because-- I really needed to see you.”

Dave still wasn’t looking at him, so Alan put down the mug and padded over to stand in front of him, reaching up to cup Dave’s face in his hands. Throughout their lives Alan had always been the taller one, so it was strange now for Dave to have the advantage of height, perched on the counter as he was. Even though it was dim in the kitchen, Alan could see that Dave’s eyes were slightly reddened. Alan brushed his thumb over Dave’s cheekbone, and this made Dave finally meet his gaze, his mouth curved up hopefully.

“So you lied?” Dave’s words made Alan stiffen, but he quickly held onto Alan’s shoulders to stop him from moving away. “When you said the kiss didn’t mean anything?”

There was a long, poignant silence as Alan fought against his every instinct to hide, to run.

“Yeah, I lied.” Alan leaned in, tugging Dave down so that their foreheads were pressed together. Dave felt warm, solid. “It meant-- it meant _everything._ ”

There was a sharp intake of breath from Dave, whose shaky hands were combing through Alan’s hair now. Their eyes met, and Dave’s gaze was so clear, so unafraid. “I’m in love with you, Al,” he whispered, the tip of his nose grazing Alan’s cheek. “I know I sound like a fuckin’ idiot--”

To stop him from talking, Alan pressed a thumb against the curve in the middle of Dave’s lush lower lip. “Then we’re both idiots,” Alan confessed, smiling at the surprise in Dave’s eyes, which were now so soft and a little wet. Alan’s thumb crept upwards, brushing away a tear snaking down Dave’s cheek.

Dave’s hands slid up from Alan’s shoulders, his fingers weaving into Alan’s hair. The look on his face was priceless: a mix of shock, disbelief and happiness so evident, so infectious that Alan found himself grinning like a fool.

This time, Dave didn’t freeze - like he had the last time - when Alan leaned up on his tip-toes and kissed him. Instead, Dave immediately opened up for him with a low, shaky sigh, his fingers tugging on Alan’s hair like he couldn’t believe Alan was here and had to confirm it for himself. They kissed - slow and tentative at first, then giving way to something firm and gentle, as though Dave were silently asking, _Are you really here?_ and Alan were answering, _Yes, yes I am._

Alan was a little overwhelmed with how much he loved Dave, like a long-dormant part of him finally coming to life at the barest touch of Dave’s lips against his. Alan understood now that it wasn’t something that had suddenly crash-landed in his life, but instead it had crept up on him after years and years of deep friendship, and it had gradually bloomed and unfurled into something beautiful when he hadn’t been paying attention, like a garden he’d come back to after a long time away to find full of flowers.

The kiss was now wavering on the edge of something deeper, something more intense. Dave’s eyes were at half-mast, taking in Alan’s face as he licked his reddened lips, and Alan was tempted to just dive in when there was a loud, sudden rumble from Dave’s stomach.

They both froze for only a second before they burst into laughter, Dave shaking in his arms as Alan buried his face in Dave’s shoulder, chuckling like a fiend. Dave smelled so good, so inviting, like cigarettes and paint and clean, male sweat. “You’re starving,” Alan said accusingly, unable to keep the affection out of his voice.

“So are you,” Dave shot back, but he was smiling as Alan stepped away to let him hop down from the counter. “And you look knackered. Don’t lie and say you’re fine.”

Alan was unable to hold back his groan. “I really fucking hate planes,” he mumbled, resting his head on Dave’s shoulder.

Dave rubbed his back soothingly. “Then let’s split that sandwich and head to bed. Deal?” His voice was as warm as a caress, his fingertips gently skating down the curve of Alan’s spine.

“If you think you’re getting half my sandwich, you’re out of your mind, Gahan,” Alan said sleepily, enjoying the huskiness of Dave’s outraged laugh.  
  


***  
  


Alan brushed his teeth in the guest bathroom while Dave got ready for bed in the master bedroom, wondering if he’d be overstepping any boundaries by assuming Dave wanted him in the same bed. Maybe it was safer to deposit his things in the guest bedroom first. Not that Alan knew which one that was, to begin with. There were two other rooms with closed doors, and there was no telling which one was the guest room.

After he was done getting ready for bed, he picked up his bag and was about to try one of the rooms when Dave stuck his head out of his bedroom, his toothbrush in his mouth. He was dressed only in a pair of shorts, a towel slung around his neck. “Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded, his voice muffled by the toothbrush.

Alan blinked down at his bag. “I wasn’t sure if, I--”

Rolling his eyes, Dave reached out and dragged Alan into the master bedroom. Relief washed over Alan in a great wave, followed by a giddy joy tinged with nerves. He didn’t even know why he felt so skittish. This was _Dave_ , who’d seen him at his best and his worst and was still here. Alan took a deep calming breath, keeping his expression impassive as he parked his bags beside Dave’s walk-in wardrobe. Proper unpacking could wait for tomorrow, when he didn’t feel like he was going to fall asleep on his feet.

Dave disappeared into his bathroom, so Alan sat on the bed first, running his fingertips across the satin smoothness of Dave’s dark blue bed sheets. He knew Dave was fond of creature comforts, always opting for the luxury version of things whenever they were on the road. Dave’s home was really a testament to that, a sleek Manhattan showcase flat that also contained bursts of his vibrant personality and warmth. Alan looked forward to getting a proper tour in the morning.

He turned to look when Dave shuffled out of the bathroom, reaching over to turn off the lamp on his side of the bed and casting the room into semi-darkness. “C’mon Al,” Dave said around a yawn, lifting the sheets and sliding in. After a moment’s hesitation, Alan did the same.

However he was not prepared for Dave reaching for him and dragging him closer, so that they were lying back to front. Alan could feel the cold tip of Dave’s nose against the crook where his neck met his shoulder, and it made Alan sigh with contentment. “I can’t believe you’re here, Charlie,” Dave murmured against his skin. His arm was wrapped around Alan’s waist, keeping him close.

“Me too,” Alan admitted, his hand dipping downwards until it found Dave’s, their fingers twining together. And that was how he drifted off to sleep, safe and secure in Dave’s hold.  
  


***  
  


In the morning, Alan awoke in a strange bed in a strange country, stiffening when he realised he was alone in bed. Then he heard water running in the bathroom, followed by Dave’s deep, cheerful humming. His heart had managed to stop racing by the time Dave emerged, his smile widening when he saw Alan was awake. “About bloody time, old man,” he said with that little boyish laugh of his. He was still shirtless, his tattoos a stark contrast against the pale loveliness of his skin.

“Get back here,” Alan grumbled, patting the gaping space beside him. Dave hopped in with the biggest grin, going over to crawl on top of Alan and diving in to lavish kisses all over Alan’s face, Alan laughingly protesting as he pretended to fend off Dave’s attacks.

Though at some point, the kisses turned real as they stopped play-fighting, Dave pinning Alan’s wrists down as his tongue swept into Alan’s mouth, his body a deliciously firm weight on top of Alan’s. Alan spread his legs to let Dave settle between them, moaning softly as Dave began rocking his hips against Alan’s, both of them gasping with need. Alan just gave himself over to Dave, surrendering everything to his questing mouth and his maddening hands and the silky, sinful way Dave was moving against him, like he wanted to straddle Alan and ride him into the mattress, and that thought got Alan blindingly hard like nothing else had in months - except for his wet dream about Dave, of course.

“Dreamt about you,” Alan managed to get out during a break in their kisses, eliciting an interested ‘mmm’ from Dave who was now busy kissing Alan’s neck. “Had you beneath me, begging me to fuck you--”

Dave moaned brokenly against Alan’s skin. “God, I really want that,” he admitted, raising his reddened face. But there seemed to be something else in his expression as well, like he was weighing the odds of something. “Al…”

“Yeah?” Alan couldn’t help reaching up to palm his face again.

“Have you ever done it with a bloke?” There it was, Dave being forthright and blunt as usual.

Alan shook his head. It’d taken him this long to come to terms with his feelings for Dave, so sex with another man wasn’t something he’d spared much time thinking about. He did wonder, however, during the rare times whenever he saw Dave disappear with another man at their gay club jaunts in Berlin. “You have, though.”

It wasn’t a question, and sure enough Dave nodded just once, something closed off in his face. “Does it bother you?”

A small, nagging part of him swelled with jealousy, but Alan ruthlessly shut it off. “Your past is part of you,” he said, brushing Dave’s hair back. “And I want all of you.”

Dave’s lower lip trembled, leaning down so that his forehead was resting against Alan’s. “You-- fuckin’ hell, Charlie,” he said with a husky laugh before he dived down to kiss Alan again, groaning when Alan slid a hand under Dave’s shorts to squeeze that beautifully firm arse.

It’d been too long for Alan, who was shamelessly rutting against Dave’s thigh as the kiss deepened. Then Dave began sucking on the tip of Alan’s tongue, awakening a rush of other emotions that Alan had held at bay but was now powerless against. He moaned helplessly as Dave used his grip on Alan’s hair to tug his head back so he could properly stick his tongue down Alan’s throat, their kiss going from sweet and gentle to Dave hungrily fucking his mouth, leaving Alan weak-kneed and gasping.

Dave broke off their kiss, arching his hips away from Alan’s cock. Before Alan could protest, his eyes rolled up in pleasure as Dave’s hand plunged into Alan’s track bottoms, wrapping around his erection to give it sure, firm strokes. “Oh _fuck_.”

“C’mon, Charlie.” Dave was peppering his face with kisses again. “Want to see you come.”

A panting Alan just gave himself over to Dave’s skillful hand, his toes curling with pleasure. “Need you, Dave--”

Dave was watching him, mesmerised, his eyes almost all pupil. “You have me,” he assured Alan, interrupting himself with kisses. “You have me.”

Then Dave did something clever with his wrist, a quick jerk of his hand that made Alan completely lose it, moaning his orgasm into Dave’s mouth as he came and came with his eyes clamped shut in ecstasy. Alan couldn’t remember the last time he came this hard from a simple handjob - except that it wasn’t that simple, because it was _Dave’s_ hand on his cock, Dave’s body on top of his, Dave kissing the life out of him like he loved Alan so much that he was going to explode if he didn’t get to watch Alan come.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Dave said breathlessly, his eyes dark and dangerous. “That was-- Al, I wish you could’ve seen yourself.”

“You’re one to talk,” Alan shot back. When Dave’s brow furrowed in confusion, Alan leaned up and stole Dave’s parted mouth in a kiss, slotting his knee in-between Dave’s legs to rub against the burning length of Dave’s cock. Dave’s surprised chuckle melted into a long moan, and Alan shivered at the depth of Dave’s low, smoky bedroom voice which was a new discovery for him.

Dave buried his face in the curve of Alan’s neck as he rutted mindlessly against Alan’s knee, at least until he suddenly stilled in Alan’s arms, groaning Alan’s name mufffedly. Alan sighed with satisfaction at the dampness in Dave’s shorts - and his own track bottoms too, which was beginning to feel sticky and uncomfortable. Still, they could worry about that later. For now, Dave was slumping off him and onto the mattress. Alan gathered Dave into his arms, both of them curled towards each other like brackets.

“Is it an exaggeration,” a panting Dave asked, once he’d gotten his voice back to normal, “if I say that was the best sex I’d ever had?”

Alan couldn’t stop himself from bursting into laughter, his body shaking with mirth as Dave chuckled along with him.

***  
  


**1996 - London, UK**

Alan rummaged through his clothes, critically eyeing his shirts. Nat was right, he really should add more colour to his wardrobe. One of the few things he had that really ‘popped’ (as she put it) was the white striped shirt Dave had bought for him on a lark during the Violator tour. Alan reached for it now, dragging his fingertips across the smooth fabric. He wanted to take it to Russia with him, but he was afraid of accidentally leaving it behind somewhere. In the end he hung the shirt back up in his wardrobe, figuring it was safer at home. He didn’t have many reminders of Dave left in his life, and the shirt represented many fond memories for him.

He was almost done packing when the phone suddenly rang shrilly, jolting him out of his thoughts. His first hunch was that it might be Nat, calling to say she was delayed by the photoshoot. It was something Alan was used to, now that her band was really taking off - and deservedly so, Alan thought. He’d grown very close to all the members of Molotov Cocktail during the last few years when they’d stepped in for Spiritualized as the support band, and he didn’t know how he might have coped without them.

And Nat, of course.

He picked up the phone, glancing at his watch. If she was stuck at the shoot, he might make dinner plans with his friends instead. “Hello?”

“Charlie.” Daryl’s voice surprised him; they were due to meet for lunch when Alan was back from Russia, so he wasn’t expecting to hear from Daryl so soon. But there was something odd and flat in his tone that sounded the alarm bells in Alan’s head.

“Hey Daryl,” Alan said carefully. “You okay? What’s wrong?”

“Al, it’s Dave,” Daryl said in a thick, funny voice. “It’s-- it’s not good, mate.”

 _Oh God, please God, no._ This was the phone call Alan had been dreading for months. Years, to be precise. He’d had nightmares about getting this very phone call. “Did he...” Alan couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence, staggering backwards until he could feel the very solid, very cold wall.

“He’s in the hospital,” Daryl said, and pure, utter relief made Alan sag against the wall, clutching the phone so tightly that the casing was starting to creak in his hands. “He OD-ed in the bathroom. Someone found him in time, thank fuck. He was dead for like a few minutes, but they managed to resuscitate him.”

Alan let out a long, shaky breath. Even though there was no one around, he turned his face towards the wall, keeping it hidden as he swiped a trembling hand over his damp eyes. “He’s gonna be all right?”

“The LAPD have got him now, it's all a fucking mess-- Um, I’ll let you know. You all right, Charlie?” Daryl said kindly.

It was a silly question to ask - of course he wasn’t alright - but Alan knew Daryl must be just as shaken as he was. “Yeah, just-- call me if you get more news, yeah?”

“Yeah, of course mate.”

“Do you know which hospital he’s at?” Alan asked.

“Um--” Daryl read off the name, which Alan wrote down on the notepad he kept by the phone. They quickly said their goodbyes; Alan didn’t know if Daryl was going to inform Martin and Andy, since he technically didn’t work for them anymore. Not that Alan cared, anyway. Instead he was mentally calculating how quickly he could book a ticket to LA, and whether he could change the dates for his and Nat’s flight to Moscow.

Alan was on the phone with a travel agent when he heard the sounds of keys jangling, then the door opening and the heavy clomping of Nat’s boots in the hallway. “Charlie?” she called out, her tone laced with exhaustion.

Alan covered the mouthpiece. “Give me a minute,” he shouted back, before resuming the conversation with the travel agent. There were still first class seats on a flight to LA leaving from Heathrow tomorrow morning, and he scribbled down the details.

Nat appeared in the doorway, still wearing the thick make-up from her band photoshoot. They’d even added streaks of blue in her dark hair. She smiled at Alan, bending down to press a kiss to the top of his head.

“So by when do I need to call back and confirm the flight?” Alan asked the agent, which made Nat pause and look at him curiously. He sighed at what the agent was saying. “Is there any way I can pay for it at the counter? I don’t want to give my credit card details over the phone.”

Nat was waving at him now with a frown, mouthing: _who is that?_ He held up a hand, indicating to her to wait.

Once he was done, he hung up and stood up to give Nat a distracted peck on the lips. “Who was that on the phone?” she asked, studying his face. “What happened? You look awful.”

“I’m flying to LA tomorrow morning,” Alan said, walking over to his suitcase and zipping it closed. Good thing he was done packing. “Dave OD-ed.”

Nat’s mouth dropped open. “Oh my God, is he okay?”

Alan’s hands shook as he gripped the handle of his luggage. “He-- he was technically dead for a few minutes.”

“But he’s alive?” Nat clarified, her face pale despite the thick studio make-up.

Alan jerked his head in a nod, once. He didn’t think he could stop his voice from wavering if he spoke.

“So-- wait, why are you flying over there?” Nat’s gaze fell on his suitcase. “We leave for Moscow in two days.”

Alan turned to look at her over his shoulder. Her brow was furrowed in confusion. “Nat, he almost died.”

“But you said he’s alive,” she argued. “There’s nothing you can do. Leave him to the doctors.”

“I know there’s nothing-- look, that’s not the point,” Alan said, his patience wearing thin. “My friend almost died, I need to see him--”

“It’s happened before.” Nat’s voice was getting sharp. “Remember New Orleans? And the other two times--”

“It’s not the same thing.” Alan kept his own words clipped, short. He knew Nat hated when he talked like this. “You know it’s not.”

“Then what about my family?” she asked accusingly. “This trip was supposed to be us making the wedding preparations with them.”

“The wedding’s still months away,” Alan shot back. “We can delay Moscow by a week or two, your family will understand.”

“That’s not the point!” Nat shouted. “The point is-- God, Alan, do I have to spell it out for you? I should come first, not your junkie friends--”

“Don’t talk about Dave like that,” Alan snapped at her, a cold anger creeping up his spine.

“I know a junkie when I see one, ” Nat went on, merciless and without pity. “I went through it with Nikolai-- no, I’m still going through it.”

“Please don't compare Dave with your brother.”

“They’re just going to keep relapsing, and relapsing, and breaking your heart--” Nat jabbed an accusing finger at him. “And the worst part is that we let them.”

Alan just stared at her grimly. This wasn’t the first fight they’d had about her brother, how she kept sending home vast amounts of money for his treatment so Alan had to keep increasing his share of the wedding costs. This also wasn’t the first argument they’d had about her wanting Alan to put her above everything and everyone else. He understood her point, hell he _loved_ her-- but she needed to understand there were other people in his life who were important to him, and this was a life or death situation with Dave. Alan had long ago given up on ever helping him, but the very real thought of Dave dying had shattered him, made him a little crazed with worry and sorrow. He didn’t want to get another call from Daryl a few months down the road - the one from his nightmares becoming sick, cold reality.

Nat was staring at him, her face twisted with something ugly and jealous. “Are you in love with him?”

Alan stared at her in shock. “What-- Dave? No, this isn’t about--”

“Then why are you doing this?” She was genuinely upset and confused, he could see that. But he still had no answer, the tension between them unspooling into a long, stifling silence.

“You can say what you want. I’m still going to LA,” he eventually said, his tone stiff and final.

“So that’s it?” Nat's voice was breaking. “We’re not even going to discuss this?”

Something shut off inside Alan, banking his anger into a cold, smouldering fire. “I don’t need your permission,” he said quietly, watching Nat’s face crumple in anger. “Let me know if you’re coming. If not, I will see you in Moscow next week.”

Nat’s eyes were shiny with tears as she yanked off her engagement ring, throwing it at him as she cursed at him in Russian and stomped out.  
  


***  
  


**1997 - New York City, USA**

It took Dave a while to let it sink in that Alan was here, in New York, with him. After Alan’s arrival late last night, Dave would have been content to hole up in his flat - just the two of them - and subsist on nothing but delivery and the sorry contents of his fridge. Then he and Alan could spend the next few days lying in bed together, slowly and lazily fucking each other until they passed out from sheer exhaustion and depleted fluids. However, Alan had to be his usual reasonable sodding self and suggest that they leave the flat for sustenance, because as much as Dave wanted to do nothing but shag Alan’s brains out, they couldn’t very well survive on nothing but the sad jar of pickles and the expired carton of soy milk in Dave’s fridge.

“I suppose you’re right,” Dave said reluctantly as Alan yawned in his arms. They were tangled together on the sofa, ignoring the Law & Order rerun on the telly in the background. Dave kept fluffing up Alan’s hair, even as Alan pretended to smack his hand away. “We’ll make a grocery run and stock up for a week. Then we’ll never need to leave the flat again. How’s that?”

Alan smirked at him. “Don’t you want to show me around your neighbourhood?”

“Why?” Dave buried his nose in Alan’s hair. He smelled like Dave’s shampoo and laundry detergent. “You’ve been to NYC many times before, mate.”

“Yeah, but--” Alan paused here, playing with the hem of Dave’s tank top. “It was always the tourist sites, the area near our venues-- I don’t think I’ve even ever left Manhattan.”

“Oh.” Dave blinked thoughtfully, raking his fingers through Alan’s hair. “You’ve never been to the other boroughs?”

He could feel Alan shaking his head forlornly. “And I’d like to see them on this trip before you keep me prisoner in your sex dungeon.”

Dave laughed heartily at the reference to their first day in Alan’s house. “God, I miss your place,” he murmured, planting random kisses on Alan’s shoulder. “I couldn’t even paint here because-- y’know, it isn’t the same as the art studio in Chichester.”

“Really?” Alan looked pleased and thoughtful. “I haven’t touched it, you know. Your studio.”

“You haven’t?” Dave echoed in surprise. He watched Alan’s face carefully, reading what Alan wasn’t saying out loud: that he hadn’t really wanted to accept Dave was gone, either. It filled Dave with a strange yearning to go back to England, to return to a place he’d made up his mind to leave forever as a young man. But now there was a strange pull that called him back; he _wanted_ to return to Striped, to his garden, his art studio, to Alan. Even though Alan was here right now, in his arms, Dave couldn’t ignore the lingering shadow tainting his happiness; Alan wouldn’t be staying in New York forever.

“Come on.” Alan was patting his thigh. “I want a bagel and some decent tea.” So that was that, as Dave was forced to put on proper clothes and leave the cocoon of his flat.

However, once they were walking around Tribeca, Dave was glad that Alan had insisted they step outside. It was a sunny enough day, the air cold and wonderfully crisp, and Alan looked unfairly handsome in Dave’s leather jacket. Dave wished desperately that they could hold hands. Although New York was far more progressive than most other cities, there was a very good chance either or both of them would be recognised. New Yorkers were very good about ignoring celebrities, but Dave didn’t think even the most hardened local would overlook two past members of a famous band acting all lovey-dovey in public. So Dave forced his hands into his pockets, keeping a respectable distance between himself and Alan.

This reminded Dave of something. “Do you know I’ve run into Ferret-face a few times here, since I’ve been back?” he told Alan while they were waiting in line at the deli.

Alan’s disgusted expression made Dave laugh. “What the fuck’s he doing here?”

“God knows. I told him to fuck off, all three times. But he keeps pestering me for an interview.”

It was their turn to order, so Dave got an everything bagel with lox while Alan asked for a plain one with cream cheese. It was a little silly, but Dave couldn’t quite stop staring at Alan, trying to absorb the magnitude of the fact that Alan had dropped everything for him in the UK and flown halfway across the world to see him. But then it had always felt like he'd been looking at Alan his whole life. It was just that now, he wasn't sure when Alan had started looking back.

The thought made him grin from ear to ear, brushing his fingertips against Alan’s accidentally-on-purpose. Alan’s own secretive little smile in return told him that his small gesture didn’t quite go unnoticed.  
  


***  
  


After a short introductory walk around Dave’s neighbourhood, they took the subway to Williamsburg, since Alan had mentioned that he hadn’t visited any of the other boroughs yet. Brooklyn would be a good start. On the train, a few break-dancers got on at one stop, and Dave chuckled at Alan’s fascination as the lithe dancers swung around and around the subway poles with seasoned grace. Just before their stop, a terrified-looking teenage girl with a cello case approached Dave and Alan to shyly ask for an autograph. Alan spoke very kindly to her and put her at ease while Dave did a tiny stick-figure drawing for her of himself and Alan, drawing Alan with an exaggerated bread-loaf quiff which made the girl giggle. They got off their stop in good spirits, grinning at each other for no real reason.

Dave took Alan around Williamsburg, pointing out the few landmarks he learned or that Mike had told him about, while Alan stopped to take pictures. Sometimes he snapped photos of the most arcane things too: a broken fire hydrant, the intricately carved door of a tiny Catholic church, a pizzeria owner sweeping the sidewalk outside his shop. Dave was content to just stand there and watch Alan at work; he’d done this over the years too, observing Alan as he recorded everything on his video camera. Alan must be in possession of hundreds of hours of footage, and Dave knew he must have been in a good percentage of them.

Maybe Alan had been looking back much earlier than he’d realised.

Once Alan had explored to his heart’s content, they took another subway line to Big Mike’s flat in Park Slope. As they were walking around the neighbourhood, Alan was seemingly enchanted by the rows and rows of quaint brownstones, like something out of a postcard. He took several photos, then made Dave pose in front of one just for fun.

“I resent being your pin-up model,” Dave called out, as Alan gestured for him to change his pose. “I ought to bloody charge you, Wilder.”

“Fine.” Alan’s mouth curled up mischievously. “I’ll pay for each photo with a blow job. Deal?”

Dave quickly looked around to make sure they were alone: thankfully, they were. Now he was free to leer at Alan like he wanted, adjusting himself a little in his jeans. He’d imagined Alan’s mouth around his cock so many times over the years - it was an old and treasured fantasy. “Take as many as you want, then,” Dave all but growled at him, a glint of something wicked in Alan’s eyes.

As they continued walking to Mike’s house, Alan cleared his throat. “Speaking of which...I don’t want to pry, but we should talk about--”

“I’m clean,” Dave assured him. “All patients get tested before and after recovery. Whatever I got from, erm, before-- it’s all cleared up. And there hasn’t been anyone since.”

Alan seemed surprised. “Really?”

Dave nudged him with his elbow, making way as two kids whizzed past them on skateboards. “Yeah, I’m not a slag anymore, you cheeky git.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Alan said, a little colour rising in his cheeks. “I mean-- I’m sure you had no shortage of offers.”

Dave glanced at him curiously. The patients at the recovery centre had been strongly discouraged from hooking up with one another, although Dave knew of at least a dozen illicit romances going on right under the staff’s noses. As Alan had guessed, Dave _had_ gotten offers - but he’d been too wrapped up in recovery then, and when he’d gotten better, he hadn’t wanted to use anyone to get over Alan. “You too, I’m sure,” Dave said softly.

“Not since Nat left,” Alan said, a muscle in his cheek twitching. There was a story there, which Dave made a mental note to pry out of Alan later. “But I get tested every year for my annual health screening. So-- yeah, nothing there.”

“Okay, good. Good.” Dave felt his face grow warm, realising that they’d pretty much just agreed to an exclusive relationship with each other, without either of them coming right out and saying it. He stared down at the ground, smiling when Alan’s shoulder brushed against his too many times for it to be accidental.

Dave had called Big Mike earlier to let him know he was dropping by for a visit, but he hadn’t mentioned Alan. So when Mike opened the door and saw both of them, Dave wasn’t surprised when Mike tilted his head quizzically at Alan. “Yo, Gahan. Who’s this?”

Dave finished the complicated handshake-slash-fistbump that he and Mike had come up with, before gesturing towards Alan. “This is Alan, he’s visiting the Big Apple.”

“Pleasure,” Alan said politely, sticking out his hand to Mike.

“Alan, Alan…” Mike muttered, as if trying to remember where he’d heard the name. Then his eyes widened dramatically. “Hold up, he’s the dude from your band?”

“Erm--” Dave rubbed the back of his neck as Alan glanced between both of them in amusement.

“Holy shit!” Mike cackled delightedly, ignoring Alan’s offered hand in favour of picking him up and squeezing the life out of him, making Alan yelp. “I don’t believe it! You here to see our boy?”

Alan was laughing as he was set down onto his feet again, looking a bit stunned and dizzy. “Yeah, guess you could say that.”

Mike punched the air in triumph, his generous frame shaking with laughter. “I knew both of you couldn’t be that dumb! Man, I’m so glad you worked out your shit.”

 _“Mike, what’s all that racket out there, hon?”_ a woman called out from inside the flat.

“Nothing, it’s just Dave and a friend,” Mike hollered back, before turning to beam at both of them. “You two want to stay for Tang and hush puppies?”

“I have no idea what those things are,” Alan admitted, as both Mike and Dave laughed. “But yeah, that sounds grand.”  
  


***  
  


They stayed for only about an hour, because Mike and his wife had to bring their kids to visit their grandmother. But Dave had very much enjoyed watching Mike and Alan get acquainted with each other. As he’d predicted, they’d gotten along like a house on fire, even if most of the stories they exchanged were mostly at Dave’s expense. But Mike had laughed long and heartily at Alan’s stories about some of the antics they’d gotten up to on tour, while Mike had spoken a bit about the long and arduous road to recovery that he and Dave had taken. Mike had gotten hooked on painkillers in the 80s after a botched back surgery, and Alan had listened to his story with a grave and understanding expression.

Dave didn’t think he could love Alan anymore than he already did, but today had proven him wrong. Alan was _here_ , in New York, learning Dave’s neighbourhood and meeting Dave’s sponsor and listening to all these horrific stories about recovery, because he wanted to understand Dave better. “I don’t think I could ever thank you for all you’ve done as Dave’s sponsor,” Alan told Mike at the door, when they were getting ready to leave. “You’re one of the reasons he’s sober.”

“Aw, hell, man.” Mike made as if to pick up Alan again, laughing when Alan pretended to dodge behind Dave. “Y’know, your boy’s made of pretty strong stuff. You should be proud of him.”

“I am.” Something glimmered in Alan’s eyes as he glanced over at Dave.

After they said their goodbyes, they emerged from the building into a pretty fall evening, the street lamps turning on one by one. “We could grab something for dinner,” Dave suggested, gesturing towards the direction of the nearest subway station. “Then stock up at Whole Foods in Tribeca before we head home?”

“Yeah, I’d like that.” Alan was smiling at him, his eyes soft and fond. “Let’s go home, then.”

 _Home._ Dave had been thinking of Chichester that way for some time, missing Striped and shopping at Waitrose, missing the smoky pubs where they’d have dinner and Alan would watch his football, even missing the local Our Price with the crappy record selections and the overeager Ollie. Dave missed watching the Sussex sunsets from their swing, missed his garden, missed his sunny art studio. But now that Alan was here with him, he was beginning to realise that all those things he’d missed were eclipsed by Alan’s presence, and that the concept of home was maybe not really a place, but a person.  
  
  



	10. Like the Sun and the Rainfall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A massive thank you to [**pinksyndicate**](https://pinksyndication.tumblr.com) for this immensely beautiful artwork of [Dave and Alan's first real kiss in Chapter 9](https://pinksyndication.tumblr.com/post/635728687741927424/baptize-ur-tears-and-dry-ur-eyes). Thank you so much, dear Mo, I adore you immensely!
> 
> The flashback in this chapter is dedicated to the equally wonderful [**what-could-have-been**](https://what-could-have-been.tumblr.com), who requested for something like this some time ago. I adore you too, as well as everyone else who has been following this fic and been so encouraging and lovely!

**1997 - New York City, USA**

Alan was very impressed by the variety of options at the Whole Foods supermarket in Dave’s neighbourhood. It was a little expensive, but they had all sorts of organic food here that simply wasn’t available in Chichester or even most of London. It made him feel a little easier about starting to include meat and fish in his diet again. He picked out a few canned soups that would be easy to eat, as well as some packaged meals that they could just toss in the microwave. Alan didn’t know about Dave, but he was very much planning on spending the next few days holed up in Dave’s penthouse, preferably in bed most of the time.

The shopping cart rattled as Dave loaded something heavy into it with a grunt. Alan turned to find Dave piling in several large bottles of Gatorade, a variety of flavours spanning the colours of the rainbow. Alan watched him in amused astonishment. “What the bloody hell?”

Laughing, Dave waggled his eyebrows at him. “You’ll thank me when we’re all spent and dehydrated.”

Alan couldn’t hold back his own amusement. “That confident, are you?”

Dave’s gaze raked over Alan from head to toe, his tongue quickly wetting his bottom lip. Alan suddenly wanted to kiss the life out of Dave and suck on that luscious bottom lip, right here in the canned foods aisle. “Oh I’m _very_ confident, mate,” Dave murmured, his eyes dark and dangerous.

Alan felt his throat getting dry. It wouldn’t do for both of them to start mauling each other in public. He allowed himself a quick ogle at Dave’s lean, sinuous body - Dave really did ooze sex appeal naturally, even when he didn’t mean to - and went back to shopping, ignoring Dave’s triumphant smirk.

After getting all their provisions, they made payment and carted everything off for the short walk back to Dave’s place, Dave humming happily to himself while Alan took in all the Halloween decorations that some shops had already put up. It wasn’t a very big holiday in the UK, although he knew Americans took it quite seriously and celebrated it in style.

Dave stopped outside one of the little corner shops that they called ‘bodegas’ in New York. “Hang on, we need to get one more thing,” he said, hurriedly shoving his share of the grocery bags at Alan.

“If you’re stopping to get more chocolate, I’ll kill you,” Alan called out after him as Dave waved him away dismissively. At least Dave didn’t take too long; he was out again in a few minutes with a brown paper bag and the biggest grin.

Alan arched an eyebrow at him. “Do I even dare ask what we stopped for?”

Dave’s grin widened as he offered Alan a peek into the bag. When Alan peered in and spotted three large bottles of lubricant, he couldn’t help laughing. “You horny bastard.”

To Alan’s surprise, Dave actually looked concerned. “You think three bottles are enough?”

Now both Alan’s eyebrows shot up. “You’ve got enough there to build your own slippery slide, mate.”

“I’ll go get some more, just in case,” Dave said decisively, shoving the bag at Alan and running in again before Alan could stop him. Alan was torn between laughing even more and just sighing, but it was hard to mind it too much when he was just so bloody happy. He was looking forward to his first night with Dave - their real, proper first time. He was admittedly also a little nervous, but he trusted that Dave would be patient with him and show him what to do.

Dave emerged beaming from the bodega. Through the window, Alan could see the bloke at the cashier happily counting a stack of money. “I bought their remaining supply of lube, Al!” Dave proudly announced, causing a nearby group of young women smoking outside to giggle at them.

“Jesus, let’s just go already.” Alan just couldn’t stop laughing to himself, handing off half the grocery bags to Dave as they made their way home.  
  


***  
  


Since Dave volunteered to put away the groceries on his own and shooed Alan off to the shower, Alan took his time to wash away the grime and dirt from their day spent exploring New York. It was a nice change, not having to be worried about a gig later that night or rushing for a flight the next day. More importantly, Alan had gotten to know a side of New York he hadn’t seen before; it was admittedly different to experience the city on foot and taking the subway instead of being chauffeured from place to place by car or limousine. Now, he had a better understanding why Dave had fallen in love with the city and had chosen to make a home here.

They still hadn’t talked about when Alan would be leaving; even Alan himself wasn’t 100% sure at this point. All he knew was that he had a few nebulous commitments coming up in November for the next Recoil record, so he would have to be back at some point after Guy Fawkes Day. For now, he was determined to enjoy his remaining time with Dave. This was something they could discuss once Alan had more confirmation of the availability of the session musicians and guest artists he wanted to work with.

Once out of the shower and into something more comfortable, Alan wandered out into the living room, where he found the telly blaring music from VH1. In the kitchen, Dave was singing softly to himself as he stood at the counter, putting away the last of the groceries. His face lit up when he spotted Alan in the kitchen doorway. “Thought you drowned in the shower,” he said, his eyes alight with mirth.

“Your concern is touching,” Alan replied dryly, which made Dave chuckle. Alan couldn’t resist wrapping his arms around Dave’s waist from behind, resting his chin on Dave’s shoulder as he watched Dave sorting out the tea and coffee. It was quite lovely to just stand here with Dave in his arms like this. However, Alan couldn’t resist pressing a kiss to where Dave’s neck met his shoulder, his hand slipping under Dave’s shirt as his thumb slowly slid in and out of Dave’s navel.

“What’re you doing?” Dave’s voice was full of amusement, although it was a little husky.

“Watching you put away the shopping.” Alan knew it was pointless trying to sound innocent when his hand was wandering further south.

“You’re distracting me.” Dave’s eyes had fluttered shut, and he was breathing through his mouth now.

“Oh, am I? My apologies,” Alan said smoothly, even as he began kissing Dave’s neck in earnest, his fingers slipping under the waistband of Dave’s jeans.

“God, Charlie.” Dave probably wasn’t even aware he had crushed the box of tea he’d been holding onto, his head tipping back to give Alan more access. And Alan shamelessly took advantage of it, lavishing deep, wet kisses along Dave’s neck, getting even harder when he heard Dave’s broken, helpless moan. “Al, wait--”

“Been wanting you all day,” Alan confessed against the damp skin of Dave’s neck. “Can’t wait anymore.”

“No, Al, I’m serious,” Dave said with a breathless laugh, nudging Alan backwards so he could turn around in Alan’s arms. Now they were face to face, Dave grinning from ear to ear as his gaze dropped to Alan’s lips. “There. That’s better, innit?”

Alan helplessly dove in towards the siren call of Dave’s mouth, kissing him like he was starved for it. But Dave was teasingly holding back, matching Alan’s hunger with tenderness, his fingers tracing Alan’s earlobes and cheekbones and eyebrows like they were precious things. The kiss turned gentler, sweeter, Dave’s tongue sliding into Alan’s mouth to taste him tentatively, and Alan let him, his grip on Dave’s shirt easing.

When they broke apart with a wet noise, Alan blinked at Dave whose smile had softened. “I’ve been imagining this for a long time,” Dave said softly, punctuating his words with little pecks. “Let me savour it.”

What Flood had said about Dave from a week ago popped up in Alan’s head again, rousing his curiosity. “How long?” Alan asked, planting a row of kisses along Dave’s jawline. The sensation of stubble was still alien to him, but it was something he had to contend with when kissing another man.

Something changed in Dave’s smile; it simultaneously brightened, while at the same time bearing a tinge of sadness. “Too long,” he said, and it made Alan’s throat tighten as he thought of Berlin, all those years ago.

They kissed deeply in the kitchen for a good few minutes, Dave’s hands roaming up and down Alan’s back before they slid upwards, his fingers weaving into Alan’s hair and tugging gently, making him groan. Alan had no idea his head had so many erogenous zones.

“Charlie,” Dave whispered. Their kisses were getting dirtier now, hot and wet and open-mouthed, Alan sucking on Dave’s plush bottom lip like it was a treat. He could feel Dave grinding his hips against him too, the hard hot length of his cock burning a line against Alan’s pelvis.

Alan broke off the kiss to catch his breath. “I want you so much. God, what you do to me,” he admitted, unbuckling Dave’s belt and undoing the button of his jeans so he could slide a hand into Dave’s briefs. Dave moaned in pleasure as his eyes squeezed shut, Alan clumsily wrapping a hand around his hard, hot erection.

“Fuck.” Dave attacked his mouth again, his kisses fierce and biting as Alan unsteadily took in the sensation of jerking off another bloke for the first time. What should have felt odd and strange was instead instinctive and natural to him, because he desperately wanted Dave so much, wanted to bring him off and give him pleasure and make him so loved and happy that he would never want to leave.

They stumbled their way to the master bedroom, their clothes in various states of disarray as though they were horny teenagers who couldn’t wait to touch each other. Dave tumbled onto the mattress, yanking Alan on top of him as they mindlessly grinded against each other, mouth seeking out each other for the most intense, dizzying kisses Alan had ever experienced in his life. It felt like one mere brush of Dave’s mouth against his could burn through him like fire, leaving his skin parched for nothing but Dave’s touch.

Dave pulled away from Alan’s mouth, ignoring Alan’s indignant noise of protest. “Lube,” Dave panted, trying to slide out from Alan and get out of bed, except for the one small fact that Alan wasn’t letting him. “We need lube, Charlie.”

“Untrue.” Alan kissed along Dave’s jaw. “Everything I need is right here.”

Laughing, Dave smacked him on the arse before wriggling his way out from under Alan. “Nice try, Mr. Slick.” At Alan’s groan, Dave gave him a dismissive backwards wave. “Yes yes, I know how much you hate that nickname.”

Alan grumbled as he turned over in bed to watch Dave leave, appreciating the view. At least Dave was naked by the time he was back, gleefully brandishing one of the bottles they’d bought at the bodega earlier. Alan had taken the opportunity to shed the rest of his clothes too, so he mischievously let his legs fall open, enjoying the way Dave was admiring his thighs.

They didn’t waste a second once Dave was back in bed, holding onto each other and kissing each other so ferociously that Alan felt like he was losing his mind with how _good_ this felt, how all the lust and desire bottled up inside him could co-exist with how much he loved Dave - how each of these factors enhanced each other, made Alan feel like he was falling even deeper than he thought possible. And Dave was there, every step of the way, kissing Alan alternately with tenderness and fierceness, moaning Alan’s name so brokenly that it made Alan’s heart lurch in his chest.

At some point Dave swung them around so that Alan was on top of him, his legs wrapping around Alan’s hips. They were both panting heavily, their lips reddened and kiss-bruised. “Since you haven’t been with a bloke before,” Dave explained, reaching for the lube, “I thought we’d take it slow, yeah?”

Alan narrowed his eyes at him. “If you’re suggesting we stop here, I might have to bludgeon you with the lamp.”

Dave laughed loudly, his body shaking under Alan’s. “Trust me, mate, ‘Little Dave’ wouldn’t be so happy with me either.”

A thought occurred to Alan. “Are you still pierced?” he asked, gesturing towards Dave’s groin. “You know, in the--”

Dave’s smile turned sly. “Why don’t you find out for yourself?” he suggested, waggling his eyebrows at Alan.

The more Alan thought about it, the more he realised it wasn’t quite a bad idea. He reached down between Dave’s legs, caressing his balls gently and relishing Dave’s soft groan before his hand crept further back. They started kissing again as Alan took his time exploring, finding only the small bump of skin indicating a healed-over piercing. “You took it out?” Alan asked between kisses.

Dave nodded, eyes rolling back in pleasure as Alan continued to play with him. “Mmm yeah, the hygiene thing was a bit tough to keep up-- fuck Al, keep doing that…”

Alan kept kissing him, his fingers circling the dark pucker of Dave’s entrance. He’d done this with women before, but with Dave it was something that felt sacred, real. Alan belatedly realised the wisdom in Dave’s suggestion for them to go slow; besides, they had weeks for Dave to show him the ropes. In the meantime, they could experiment with everything and anything they wanted.

And right now, Alan knew he needed to come, and he wanted to watch Dave come too.

“Is there any way that we could--” Alan paused, trying to think of the right words. “Like, together?”

It was a good thing Dave already knew to read him after so many years. His expression brightened as he leaned up and gave Alan a peck on the lips. “Yeah, absolutely. Good idea. Here, like this--”

Dave reached down and grabbed Alan’s hips, adjusting both of them until Alan hissed at the feeling of Dave’s erection lined up against his own. He was shocked at how good it felt, Dave’s cock pulsing against his own. Letting out a shaky exhale, Dave then tipped some lube into his palm, then slid his hand down and wrapped it around both their erections. Alan was fighting not to come on the spot at how good and slick it felt, how he wanted to pin Dave down to the mattress and rut against him until they both lost their minds.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Dave was gasping, and Alan had no choice but to lean down, his tongue flicking against the seam of Dave’s lips before Dave let him in. Their kisses intensified along with Dave’s strokes, their hips moving together in sync, Alan overwhelmed with Dave’s voice and eyes and scent and the feel of his body under Alan’s, and Alan moaned Dave’s name as he came and came, spurting all over Dave’s hand and cock, causing Dave to curse and moan before his hips arched up too. Alan, still coming down from the high of his unbelievable orgasm, only barely registered warm stripes of something landing on his chest and stomach.

They lay there in each other’s arms, Alan knowing that he should at least roll off Dave and give him space to cool down, but he was reluctant to move away. From the tight grip Dave had on his arse, it was a good indication Dave felt the same way. “Charlie,” Dave whispered, and Alan tucked his face in the crook of Dave’s neck, feeling safe and cherished, wholly needed.  
  


***  
  


The next morning saw the two of them getting up at an indecent hour, the brightness of the sunlight flooding Dave’s room meaning that it was already past noon. After another slow, lazy round of lovemaking, Alan finally managed to eject himself from bed to prepare something to eat while Dave had his morning smoke and tried to call Jack, but didn’t manage to get him on the line. Then they had lunch in front of the telly, Alan watching Jerry Springer in vast amusement as Dave went to shower after he finished eating.

Once Alan had gotten bored of Jerry Springer, he decided to do something about the mess in Dave’s living room. He picked up the clothes that Dave had haphazardly tossed everywhere last night, throwing them into the laundry along with his own clothes. Alan was almost done sorting out Dave’s towering stacks of magazines into neat piles when the phone started ringing. Dave was still in the shower - Alan could hear him crooning ‘Paint It Black’ without a care in the world. In case it was Jack calling back, Alan took a quick peek at the caller-ID, which showed it was an unlisted number.

The phone kept ringing insistently. After a moment’s hesitation, Alan picked up the cordless receiver anyway. “Hello?”

There was a long, awkward pause, followed by someone clearing their throat. “Oh, sorry. Is Dave there?”

Although it had been a few years since they last spoke, Alan could recognise that voice anywhere, his heart stopping in his throat. “Mart?”

The silence now was even thicker, fraught with tension. “Is-- wait, is this Alan?” Martin said with a disbelieving laugh.

“Yeah, it is.” Alan had no idea what to say. He imagined Martin was pretty much in the same boat now, caught like a rabbit in the headlights. “Er, how are you?”

Martin’s voice sounded tight, anxious. “I’m good, it’s-- yeah, I’m good.” He gave another nervous laugh. “I think I must have called you by mistake, sorry.”

“No, you’ve got the right number,” Alan said, trying to think as rationally as possible. His fight-or-flight instincts were pinging all over the place, and he didn’t know why. It wasn’t like Martin was going to confront him or shout at him - unless he was drunk. “Dave’s in the shower but he’ll be out in a minute.”

“Oh, right.” Martin cleared his throat again apologetically. “I thought you were in London.”

“I was,” Alan said. He heard Martin lived there too, and he’d often wondered what would happen if he just ran into Martin and his family one day on the streets. He didn’t particularly feel the need to let Martin know that he’d moved. “Just visiting, that’s all.”

“Ah, okay.” Alan could tell Martin was burning with more questions, but he wasn’t going to offer any answers. If Martin wanted to know something, he could just come right out and ask, although Alan was willing to bet money on pigs flying rather than Martin opening his mouth.

Interestingly, it turned out that Martin _did_ muster up the effort to ask him something. “Actually, I heard from Kess that you said no to the BBC interview.”

“That’s right,” Alan said. He was relieved to hear Dave finally emerge from the bathroom, whistling happily to himself. “No point really, is there?”

Martin chuckled. “I wouldn’t say that. At least the publicity might help sales for the compilation.”

“So you wouldn’t mind?” Alan was genuinely curious. “If they asked about the drinking, your seizures-- all of it?”

“I’m in treatment for that.” Martin sounded a little defensive now. “It’s in the past.”

Alan kept his thoughts to himself. He believed Dave wholeheartedly when he said he was sober, but trying to get Martin to be forthright was like fighting a bag of cats. “I’m just telling you, mate, it won’t be easy.”

Dave stepped out into the living room, towelling his hair dry as he made his way to the sofa and leaned down to plant a kiss on Alan’s cheek. “It’s for you,” Alan told him, gesturing at the phone.

Dave’s face lit up. “Is it Jack?”

Alan shook his head. _Mart_ , he mouthed, which made Dave’s eyes widen. Handing him the receiver, Alan stood up and walked to the windows, staring out at the view of lower Manhattan. He could hear Dave greeting Martin a lot more cheerily than Alan himself had done, followed by assurances that it really was Alan earlier on the phone and that he was just visiting Dave in New York.

Now the conversation seemed to have moved on to something more serious - the primary reason for Martin’s call, probably. Since Dave didn’t take the phone into another room to keep the conversation private, Alan assumed he was within rights to listen in. This was further confirmed by the little reassuring smile Dave flashed him when their eyes met.

“So Dan is suggesting they go on the compilation?” Dave’s voice was laced with disbelief. “But-- are they even ready? My vocals were really shit at that point.”

Another pause as Dave listened closely to whatever Martin was saying. Alan could hazard a guess that they were discussing the songs they’d recorded for the intended new album, before the rest of them had gone their separate ways. “I don’t care what Tim says,” Dave said with a sharp huff of laughter. “Tim’s...” _Not one of us_ , Alan completed the thought for him, although Dave didn't finish the sentence. But he knew Dave well enough to know that was what he meant. The four of them had been notoriously insular over the years.

“Okay Mart. Just let me know what you decide, yeah?” Dave’s eyes darted towards Alan now. “Yeah, he’s still here. You wanna speak to him?”

Alan was shaking his head and mouthing ‘NO’, but Dave frowned at him, insistently waving for him to come over and take the phone. “Yeah, I’m gonna hand the phone over. You take care, Mart. Listen to the counselors, yeah?”

Ignoring Alan’s frantic head-shaking, Dave stubbornly shoved the phone in his hand before giving him an encouraging smack on the bum. Rolling his eyes, Alan reluctantly tucked the phone against his shoulder. “Hi again, Mart.”

There was another long pause, long enough that Alan wondered whether Martin had changed his mind and hung up, until he finally spoke. “If you’re in New York, I assume things are good between you and Dave,” Martin said, his tone tentative.

 _Better than good_ , Alan thought with a smirk, but Martin didn’t need to know all that. “Yeah, it’s going well.”

“He’s still sober?”

“He works very hard at it,” Alan said, a fierce pride welling up deep inside him. His gaze landed on Dave, who was leaning against the French windows and watching Alan with barely contained curiosity.

“Can I ask you to do something for me?” Martin said. “For him, really.”

Alan cleared his throat. “Depends on what it is.”

“We could never get him to go to a vocal coach.” Martin’s tone was laced with regret here. “I mean, it’s not that I want to try and record the new songs, or whatever. But being unable to sing made him so unhappy. Maybe you can talk him into it.”

 _Why do you care?_ Alan wanted to ask, but he knew that wasn’t being fair to Martin, who did care about Dave deep down, in his own way. “Yeah, alright,” Alan said. “Take care, Mart.”

“You too.”

Once Alan hung up, Dave came to rescue the cordless receiver from him, his brow furrowed in concern. “What did he want?”

“He asked me to talk to you about a vocal coach,” Alan told him, as Dave nodded with an ‘ah’. “What about you?”

Dave rubbed the back of his neck, looking vastly uncomfortable. “It’s about the songs we tried to record for the new album. Seems Mart is keen to get them on the compilation.”

“And you’re not sure,” Alan said, as Dave tugged him down onto the sofa with him. It felt like second nature now to slot their bodies together so that Alan could offer him some degree of comfort.

‘Well, yeah, but then I’m not sure about a lot of things,” Dave went on, his tone steady and measured. Alan suspected he was reciting things he’d learned from recovery. “But I went ahead and did them anyway. Otherwise I’d never get anything done.”

“Do you want to sing again?” Alan let the question hang in the air, even as Dave shifted in his arms. “I’ll help you get a coach.”

“We’ll see.” Dave sounded softer now, more content. “In the meantime, those bottles of lube aren’t going to use themselves.”

“Idiot.” Alan pressed a kiss to Dave’s hairline, letting normalcy guide them back to a lazy afternoon before the disruption of Martin’s phone call.

***  
  


**1982 - New York City, USA**

Dave winced as he lifted his left arm, which had been throbbing all morning. The pain and swelling was already a good indication of an infection, but last night he’d merely wrapped one of the hotel’s hand towels over it, hoping for the best. However, when he’d woken up after a fitful night of tossing and turning, the pain hadn’t abated at all. In fact, it’d gotten much worse.

It wasn’t as though he had any chance of a full, restful night of sleep anyway. Dave had been unable to nod off when they’d all gotten back late to the hotel yesterday after his tattoo removal. He’d been too excited and full of nerves; it was his very first time in New York, after all, and he’d dreamt his whole life about visiting this city. All the coolest bands had gotten their start here, and now it was their band’s turn to leave their mark on New York with their first two gigs here.

Except-- Dave didn’t think there might be a gig tonight, not with how much his bloody arm was hurting. “Fuck,” he hissed under his breath as he gingerly maneuvered his arm out from under the blanket. It throbbed even more angrily in response.

“What’s wrong?” Alan emerged from the bathroom, rubbing a towel over his hair. His brow creased in concern when he took a closer look at Dave. “Shit, you alright? You look pale.”

“My arm’s just acting up a bit,” Dave said through gritted teeth, shifting his arm forward so he could sit up in bed. They all had to get ready soon, because Seymour - the gregarious, terrifying boss of Sire Records - was going to take them out for an early lunch meeting, followed by a VIP tour around the city.

Slinging the towel around his neck, Alan walked over to Dave’s bed and bent down, gesturing for Dave to raise his arm. “Let’s have a look, then.”

Frankly, Dave was afraid to remove the towel. Alan must have sensed this, for he merely sat on the edge of Dave’s bed and began unwrapping the towel himself. Dave involuntarily flinched as Alan gently peeled off the last of it, which was sticking to his wound. The way Alan’s eyes widened in alarm wasn’t good. “Fuck, you need a doctor,” he said, his frown deepening as he inspected Dave’s arm. “I think it’s infected, mate.”

Dave’s heart sank when Alan voiced out what he himself was already thinking. “American healthcare’s expensive,” he said, trying to laugh it off. “It’s not like they have the NHS here.”

“Doesn’t matter, this needs medical treatment.” Alan got up from the bed, grim determination on his face as he quickly ran a comb through his hair. “I’m going to let Dan know.”

“Alan--” Dave began, but Alan was already striding out purposefully from the hotel room, closing the door behind him.

Dave slumped back in bed, licking the sweat off his upper lip. To be honest, he was a little relieved that Alan had taken charge of the situation and Dave didn’t need to go telling the other guys that there was a possibility he might not be able to perform tonight, let alone join the important lunch meeting with Seymour.

Alan was back with Dan in less than five minutes, and Dave knew he was in big trouble when Dan winced at his wound, his face turning a bit green. “Yeah, we’re getting you to the hospital,” Dan said firmly. “Get dressed, Dave.”

“But what about the lunch meeting with Seymour?” Dave asked, swinging his legs out of bed.

“He’ll understand.” Dan glanced over at Alan. “You lot meet him first - you, Mart, Fletch and Neil.”

Alan quirked an eyebrow at him. “Then what about Dave?”

Dave kept his eyes on his wound, which had produced an alarming amount of pus overnight. “I’ll be fine on my own,” he assured them, even though the thought of spending all day in a foreign hospital was really depressing. He really wished Jo had flown in with him.

“Don’t be daft, obviously I’m not sending you alone,” Dan said to him. “Daryl’s not free, but I’ll get one of the crew to accompany you--”

“I’ll do it,” Alan said quietly, as both Dave and Dan stared at him in surprise. “It wouldn’t feel right, enjoying myself when Dave’s in a bad way.”

“What about Seymour?” Dave asked. “And the tour, you said you wanted to see New York--”

“It’s not going to run away.” The corner of Alan’s mouth tugged up in the tiniest smile that Dave was beginning to learn signalled his amusement. “It’ll still be here when you’re out of hospital, right? Besides, I’m not even a full-fledged member of the band yet. Seymour’s not going to bother about me.”

“That’s not true,” Dave argued, but he could see Dan’s face had taken on a thoughtful look, which meant he was pondering Alan’s suggestion more seriously.

“I’ll find out from the concierge where the nearest hospital is,” Dan finally said to Alan, before reaching into his wallet and handing over a credit card. “This is for all label expenses, you can charge the hospital fees here first.”

They continued talking logistics for a while more, and Dave admittedly drifted in and out of the conversation, doing his best to ignore the mounting pain in his left arm. After Dan left, he felt Alan’s cool hands on him, helping him to the bathroom so he could at least brush his teeth and wash his face while Alan picked out some clothes for him. After helping Dave get dressed, Alan called Dan’s room to get the details of the hospital, then rang the concierge to book a cab for them.

In the taxi ride to Mt Sinai, Dave rested his head against the glass, groaning as Alan patted his shoulder sympathetically. He didn’t know Alan very well, but he’d already taken a liking to him during the audition. He seemed like a responsible bloke, the type of friend that would have your back, and Dave was actually rather grateful Alan had offered to accompany him to the hospital. Dave hated being alone when he was ill, and he’d always relied too much on Jo. But Alan’s presence was just as soothing.

At the hospital, there was already a long queue of people in the emergency department who seemed to be in much worse condition than Dave. One bloke even staggered in with his hand pressed against his shoulder, concealing what turned out to be a gunshot wound. Dave and Alan exchanged wide-eyed stares as the ER staff rushed over to him just before the guy toppled over on a gurney.

“Guess my situation’s not that bad,” Dave said with a little laugh, even as his wound throbbed furiously.

“Still, you need to get it looked at.” Alan shot him a wry look. “Wouldn’t want the fans to run away screaming at our very first American gig, eh?”

“What, when they see my wound? Or your face?” Dave laughed when Alan rolled his eyes at him. He instinctively knew Alan could take the jibe; Alan seemed to be a relaxed, good-natured bloke who shared Dave’s offbeat sense of humour.

“Is it always like that, though?” Alan asked, and Dave instantly knew what he was referring to. He remembered how stunned Alan had been at the mad rush of fans after his very first gig with them at Crocs a few days ago, followed by Top of the Pops before they’d jumped on the Concorde to America. Dave himself had been rather disturbed by it; he hated it whenever their fans were in danger of getting hurt.

“Not always,” Dave admitted, shifting his arm a little so he could get more comfortable. Which was a pointless exercise on these hard hospital chairs, but chatting with Alan was helping to take his mind off things. “Some gigs are quieter. That one was just a bit mad, that’s all.”

Alan nodded thoughtfully. “It was a little bit overwhelming. But I suppose I should get used to it.”

Dave looked over at him. “Don’t mind me being blunt, mate. But-- I feel really bad you’re here. I mean, you could be out getting treated to steak and lobster right now, or visiting the Empire State Building. I mean, why? We barely know each other.”

Alan’s mouth crooked up in another smile. “You seem like a really nice bloke. Plus, you didn’t have to loan me the money to buy new clothes. But you did.”

“Oh.” Dave had almost forgotten about that. When they’d first flown in, he’d seen Alan shivering in only a thin jacket and ratty scarf during their first night out in New York. He’d suspected that Alan didn’t have much money to begin with, so Dave had insisted on lending Alan the money first to get some decent winter wear as well as some smart new clothes for their gigs. Alan had only reluctantly accepted after Dave had repeatedly worn him down.

“Also, I’m not sure if you remember this.” Alan shot him a warm smile. “But during the audition, I was a little bit unsure of myself. You helped to make me feel at ease, y’know?”

Dave let out a sharp laugh that made many heads in the ER turn towards them. “What the hell did you have to be nervous about? You were the only bloke there who wasn’t completely useless.”

Alan’s grin widened. “Fletch told me the others who turned up were awful.”

“Pretty much, yeah.” Dave nodded. “They were a lot better looking, though.”

“Oh piss off,” Alan said with a laugh.

“David Gahan?” a harried nurse called out from a nearby examination room. As Dave stood up in response, she waved him in. “Doctor’s ready for you, hon.”

“Go on.” Alan flashed him a smile as he picked up a battered copy of The New Yorker. “I’ll be right here.”

Dave didn’t know why Alan’s words eased the tightness of his chest, but he felt much better knowing Alan - who was turning out to be really solid, really dependable - would be ready and waiting for him outside. “Wish me luck, mate.”  
  


***  
  


After a grand total of five hours of waiting - as they rotated between a series of overworked doctors - Dave was given a round of antibiotics, a few jabs and had his arm all bandaged up with a sling. Alan had snuck out a few times to give Dan updates, and he’d reported to Dave that Martin and Fletch had opted out of the VIP tour too, in solidarity with Dave. “They did?” Dave asked, astonished and touched, while Alan nodded with a reassuring smile.

Once they were back at the hotel, there was a quick band meeting to discuss whether the gig should proceed. It was already 8pm and they’d missed the evening soundcheck, and Daryl - who had nipped down to the Ritz to set up the equipment - said there were issues with the sound system. “Dave, how do you feel?” Dan asked him, as everyone swivelled to look at Dave. “If your arm’s dodgy, you shouldn’t perform.”

“I feel much better, to be honest,” Dave insisted. He didn’t want to let the rest of them down. “I just won’t move about so much with the bandages and all.”

“If you’re sure,” Martin said. His brows were drawn together in uncertainty.

“I’m sure,” Dave said firmly.

He saw Fletch and Martin exchanging a shrug, while Alan remained silent - probably mindful that he was still just an employee. Dave forced down a pang of guilt; he was pretty sure they’d make Alan an official member sooner or later, right after they’d proved a point to Vince. Still it didn’t stop him feeling bad for Alan, unwittingly caught in the invisible tangle of one-upmanship between them and Vince.

In the end, Dave felt like he should have insisted on sitting out the gig. Everything that could go wrong _did_ go wrong, and they’d ended up taking the stage only at 2.30am. The crowd had gotten progressively drunker and more aggressive, and Dave had felt a bit silly, dancing about stiffly with his arm in a sling. When they’d finally gotten to leave the venue around five in the morning, some bloke had yelled out at them: “What happened to you guys? You used to be good!”

“Piss off,” Fletch muttered under his breath, while Martin rubbed his back.

“How’s your arm, Dave?” Alan said, eyeing his sling.

“I’ll live.” Dave was beyond exhausted and still severely jet-lagged, but Alan’s concern had made him smile a bit.  
  


***  
  


When they got back to the room, Alan had graciously given Dave first use of the shower. Wrapping a plastic bag around his arm, Dave tried to clean up as best as he could. Although he was physically wrecked, his mind was still running at full speed. When he got out from the bathroom, he tried calling Jo, but couldn’t reach her. Given the time difference, she was probably already at work.

He was still feeling somewhat glum and antsy by the time Alan emerged from his bath. He seemed somewhat surprised to see Dave still awake. “Oh, thought you’d be knocked out,” he said, running the towel through his hair.

“Can’t sleep,” Dave muttered, hating the fact that he was behaving like a six-year-old refusing to go to bed.

Instead of shrugging off Dave’s odd behaviour, Alan looked thoughtful. “Want to go for a short walk? Since we didn’t get to see much of New York today.”

Dave actually sat up in bed, his spirits somewhat lifted at the mere suggestion. “Really? You wouldn’t mind?”

“Nah.” Alan got up, quickly running a comb through his hair. “Let’s go, mate.”

It was true that New York never slept: Dave was amazed to see many people up and about at six in the morning. They were staying in an area Seymour called Midtown, which was walking distance to Times Square. So they made the short journey there, Alan talking about the multitude of bands he’d been in and his years as a studio lackey, while Dave shared stories with Alan about life in the band through the past year, especially their surprising and sudden rise to fame.

“What about when Vince left?” Alan asked. He was holding a small disposable camera that he’d bought at the airport, and Dave noticed he’d been snapping photos at any random opportunity. “Were you all nervous?”

“No, not really.” Dave stuck a cigarette in his mouth, lighting it one-handed. “We knew Mart could write songs. We were determined to push on, you know? Just-- dust ourselves off and get on with it.” He shot Alan a sly smile. “Plus, we have you now, don’t we?”

Alan grinned at him. “Nice to see that I factor into your plans for world domination.”

They stopped by Times Square to gawk at the giant neon advertisements and billboards, advertising Coke and Kodak and Casio. Alan took a photo of Dave posing by a Bowie poster with a cheesy grin, promising to give him the picture once he developed the film.

Once they got tired of the spectacle, they continued walking and chatting, heading towards quieter streets until Dave realised he’d completely forgotten the pain of his arm. By now they’d arrived at the Hudson, the dark grey waters sloshing against its concrete banks. The sun, however, was beginning to rise, dawn painting the sky a pale pink and orange. Alan took a seat on a bench facing the river, and Dave sat down beside him. The wind was fierce enough to sting their cheeks and their chapped lips, and Dave’s fingers were numb and icy.

But as he watched the sunrise with Alan in comfortable silence, for some reason Dave found himself not minding the cold at all.  
  
  


***

**1997 - New York City, USA**

When asked, Dave could not really say what had made him choose New York as a place to call home. At the time when he’d purchased the loft, he’d been desperate to get away from the vipers’ pit that was LA, the backdrop to all his most spectacular failures. It had been Kess’s idea to force him into rehab somewhere across the country, so Dave had simply done as he was told; he would have been lost and adrift otherwise. But he’d ended up falling in love with New York and its vastness and the anonymity it had freely offered, and all he had wanted was a place to hide and gather up the pieces of himself again.

He had never, ever imagined that Alan would be here with him. He had certainly _hoped_ , but it had felt like something unattainable at the time, like his wish to record an album with Bowie, or Alan’s wish of going into space to view the Earth from above. But Dave still wasn’t over the shock that Alan was with him in his penthouse loft, and that Alan loved him back.

Rolling over in bed now, Dave propped himself up on an elbow, watching as Alan got dressed. As much as he wanted Alan to stay in bed with him for the rest of the week, Alan had an appointment to meet a much sought-after spoken word artist in New York that he wanted very badly for the next Recoil record.

Something lurched in Dave’s chest at the thought of Alan eventually having to leave New York, to return to the UK so he could start working on his next record in his brand new studio. Dave already felt guilty about keeping Alan from doing all that right now, but his happiness at Alan being here outweighed any negative feelings that might have dogged him. Alan was in New York for now, and Dave was going to enjoy it as long as he could. As for Alan’s eventual departure, they would both cross that bridge later.

He took the opportunity now to watch Alan getting ready, those quick and nimble fingers buttoning up his shirt and hiding that glorious torso behind a respectable veneer of black linen. Once Alan was done, he snapped on his watch before styling his hair in Dave’s bedroom mirror. Dave loved the length of Alan’s hair now, which was starting to get endearingly tousled and floppy.

Dave’s awe and affection must have shown on his face, because Alan paused in the middle of searching for his wallet when he saw Dave staring. “What is it?” Alan patted his jaw. “Have I got shaving cream on my face?”

“No.” Dave laughed, beckoning him closer. Alan walked over to the bed, perching himself on the mattress. Dave reached out and cupped Alan’s face, his thumb rubbing across Alan’s cheekbone. “Was just looking, that’s all,” Dave confessed. He’d been stealing glances for years, but now he was finally free to look his fill.

The corner of Alan’s mouth quirked up as he turned and pressed a kiss to Dave’s palm. “Looking’s not free, y’know.” Alan glanced down at the sheets, and Dave stole the opportunity to admire the downwards sweep of his full lashes. “It’ll cost you.”

“Oh?’ Dave arched an eyebrow at him, playing along. “Like what?”

Alan’s eyes flashed up to meet his own. “A kiss.”

Dave was more than happy to oblige, leaning in to nuzzle against Alan’s lips as they kissed slowly, and he could taste the mint from Alan’s toothpaste in his mouth.

When they broke apart, Alan smirked at him. “Not enough. You looked for quite a long time.”

Dave laughed loudly. “How rude of me. Let me pay in full, then.”

They resumed the kiss, at least until Alan reluctantly pulled away and glanced at his watch with a groan. “Don’t want to be late,” he said regretfully, giving Dave one last quick kiss before he got up. “What time’s your NA meeting?”

Dave sighed as he flopped over so he could see his bedroom clock. “Six, in Midtown.”

“I’ll take care of dinner, then.” Alan flashed him a mischievous smile. “Don’t go buying any more lube, for god’s sake.”

Dave eyed the first bottle they’d started on, which was already half empty after three days. “Don’t bitch at me when we run out at a crucial time.”

“I’d always bitch at you, no matter what.” One last kiss before Alan was out the door, yelling his farewell as Dave sank back into bed, feeling sore and well-used and missing Alan already.  
  
  
***  
  


Dave had attended several NA meetings in various locations, but he always found himself drifting back to the ones held in Midtown at an off-Broadway basement. He hadn’t liked the meetings held in church facilities, and once in LA, he’d spent the entire meeting being gawked at by a bloke who was very clearly one of the more obsessed fans, because he’d cornered Dave after the meeting and rattled off almost their entire discography by heart. The NA meetings in Midtown felt nice and anonymous, and he’d come to know some of the other ex-addicts as well.

Of course, it helped vastly that Alan would soon be waiting for him at home. That thought made Dave smile like a lunatic throughout the meeting, and he had to force himself to tone it down when Tony the facilitator was shooting him strange looks during some of the sadder stories from the other addicts.

“What about you, Dave?” Tony said, once they’d clapped for Susan’s 30 days of sobriety. “You’re celebrating-- 120 days?”

“132, actually,” Dave corrected him, beaming as the others applauded. “Thanks, cheers very much.”

“You look happy,” a man named Carlos told him, his tone laced with envy. “You in love, bro?”

Dave thought about how he’d watched Alan getting dressed this morning, limned by the sunshine flooding in through the window. How he’d been in the middle of getting ready before he’d noticed Dave watching him and shot him that secretive little smile of his, the one that made Dave’s heart feel two sizes bigger.

“Yeah, I am.” It was impossible to hold back his smile, even as some of the women went ‘awww’. “It’s really amazing.”

Even Tony was smiling. “We’re happy for you, Dave. Just remember-- don’t use it as a crutch, okay?”

“No, I understand,” Dave assured him. And he really did. His younger self might have gotten defensive at Tony’s insinuation, but now that he’d paid the full cost of his recklessness, he could see the value in the experience of others who had trod the same beaten path before him. “I mean, I just thought I’d never be able to feel like this again. To be happy again, y’know? Everyday, I get a bit of Dave back. I didn’t think that was possible before.”

Everyone in the circle was nodding with great understanding. Tony’s smile had softened into something profound and glad. “It is. And it’ll only get better.”

Dave smiled back at him. “Yeah mate, I really hope so.”

After the meeting, they emerged from the basement to find that it was pouring with rain. Normally, Dave would find a nearby cafe to wait out the worst of it and have a smoke and coffee, but the thought of Alan waiting back home for him made him throw his jacket over his head, looking for a cab in the rain. Unable to find one, he made a dash towards the nearest subway entrance instead. He had to run in the rain again once he left the safety of the Canal Street station, and he was shivering by the time the doorman quickly let him into the building. Dave ignored the cold as he jabbed at the lift buttons, wishing it would be faster.

Dave let out a sigh of relief when he finally let himself into the flat, which was warm and cosy, the aroma of something chickeny wafting out from the kitchen. He was in the middle of shucking his boots when Alan appeared at the doorway, ready with a towel for Dave. “Look at you, you’re drenched.” He quickly came over to wrap the towel around a shivering Dave, whose teeth were already chattering. He couldn’t be more grateful for the warmth and fluffiness of the towel, which Alan must have tossed in the dryer. “Dinner’s almost ready. You all right?”

“I am now.” Dave couldn’t stop smiling as Alan kissed him hello, glad to be in his warm flat with food waiting in the kitchen. Outside, the storm raged over New York, turning the Hudson a dark, forbidding grey as rain pelted Dave’s windows. But Dave couldn’t care less, ridiculously happy and safe in Alan’s arms.  
  
  
  
  



	11. Cleanest I've Been

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really love [**pinksyndicate**](https://pinksyndication.tumblr.com) and their rendition of the scene in the last chapter where [Dave forces Alan to talk to Martin on the phone](https://pinksyndication.tumblr.com/post/637367586068299776/senorarelojes-lets-be-real-this-is-probably). Alan's face is hilarious in this! Thank you Mo! ❤

**1997 - New York City, USA**

After his second week in New York, Alan decided it was time to nudge Dave towards vocal training. Obviously, it was harder to look for a good and trustworthy singing coach in New York. Back in London, Alan at least had his own little network of people who were very talented and reliable - his two prerequisites for anyone he might consider working with. But out here in New York, it was very much like the wild west. Almost anyone with zero credentials could - and did - call themselves a singing coach, so Alan spent a long time sifting the wheat from the chaff. Even when he’d narrowed it down to a list of potential coaches, he had to try and determine if they were the sort to run blabbing to the press that the ex-lead singer of Depeche Mode couldn’t sing.

Of course, once they’d passed through Alan’s vigorous vetting process, there was the bigger problem of ensuring one of them was someone who Dave could gel with and feel comfortable around. As outwardly friendly and sociable as Dave was on the surface, he took a long time to trust people when it came to work. For something as critically important to Dave as his voice, Alan knew it had to be a person who was just the right fit.

In the end, the solution came from a surprising source. Martin, who’d been calling Dave (but never Alan) more often these days because he was thinking of moving to California and buying a house in Santa Barbara, had suggested a coach named Evelyn who came highly recommended by a friend of his wife. Evelyn was also good at discretion, having already coached a multitude of A-list singers and actors. Although she was based in LA, she was conveniently going to be in New York for the next few months.

After Alan did his homework on her and Dave agreed to give her a try, they made an appointment at her temporary studio somewhere uptown. During the cab ride over, Alan could see Dave was nervous, his leg jiggling up and down anxiously as he stared out of the window. Alan tried to offer his support by squeezing Dave’s knee every now and then, eliciting a shaky but grateful smile from Dave.

Once they reached the studio, Dave greeted the receptionist and gave his name. Alan took it as a good sign that she barely batted an eyelid at his name, chewing her gum indifferently. “Take a seat, Ms Halus will be right with ya, hon.”

They perched themselves on the sofa in the waiting area, Alan thumbing through the New York Times while Dave scraped at the black polish flaking off his nails. His entire body was a taut, tense line, alert and ready to bolt. Alan could hear the muffled sounds of someone going through their vocal runs, which made him feel like he was backstage again at some arena, listening to Hildia and Samantha warming up somewhere before a concert. Sometimes, Dave had joined them too, but those occasions were rare.

The door swung open, and a young man sheepishly stepped out, calling back, “Thank you, Evelyn!” as he left.

A tall red-haired woman in a long, flowy bohemian dress emerged from the studio, flashing them a smile. “Dave, is it? I’ll be right back. You want some water?”

“Thanks, love,” Dave said with a small smile. Once she returned, she handed him and Alan glasses of warm water, waiting for Dave to finish drinking before she gestured for him to follow her into the studio. Her gaze fell on Alan. “Our session will be around an hour. If you want to go for a walk around the neighbourhood--”

“I’ll be right here,” Alan assured her. The relief on Dave’s face was palpable. “Good luck, mate.”

“Thanks, Charlie.” Dave flashed him the warmest smile before disappearing into the studio.  
  


***  
  


“See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Alan knew he sounded smug, but it was hard not to be happy when Dave had left the session with Evelyn beaming as though he’d won the lottery.

As if to prove Alan’s point, a laughing Dave gave him a prompt smack on the backside as they unboxed the takeaway containers from the Ethiopian restaurant downstairs that Alan had always wanted to try. “If you say ‘I told you so’, I’m going to dump this curry down your jeans, mate,” Dave warned him.

“Kinky,” Alan said wryly, this time successfully dodging another incoming smack from Dave. “Should I be concerned you’re so obsessed with my arse?”

“Why not?” Dave leaned against the kitchen counter, sliding his hand into the back pocket of Alan’s jeans as he gently massaged Alan’s bum. “It’s quite a magnificent arse, if I do say so myself.”

“Guilty as charged.” Alan grinned at Dave, wiggling into his touch. He’d meant for it to be playful, so he was surprised at the way Dave’s eyes quickly darkened, his smile turning predatory. The quick weather changes of Dave’s moods and desires were adding very interesting new layers to their relationship.

Dave leaned in, grabbing his chin and holding Alan still as he kissed him slowly and surely, tilting his head as he deepened it. Alan let himself be kissed, luxuriating in the feel of Dave’s plush, full lips. Dave was an insanely talented kisser, often ambushing Alan around the flat whenever he pleased. Sometimes they could lie in bed and kiss for hours, or just neck on the sofa like teenagers, but sometimes one of their kisses could take a dizzying turn towards something wet and dirty and primal, making Alan hard in record time.

They’d taken it slow as Dave suggested, mostly relying on hands and mouths while Dave patiently tutored him on all the different ways they could pleasure each other. Alan really wanted to fuck Dave, and he knew Dave desperately wanted it too, judging from how quickly he’d come like a freight train when Alan had his fingers in him the other night. But Alan was barely past his lessons on how to give Dave head, because every time Dave had tried to show him via example, they’d gotten carried away. No one could blame Alan for getting distracted, right?

This time, Dave didn’t seem to be in a teaching mood as he quickly unbuckled Alan’s belt, dropping down to his knees and unzipping Alan’s jeans, easing out his already leaking erection. “Fuck, Al,” Dave said in wonder, his mouth practically watering as his lips closed over the head of Alan’s cock, moaning around it and causing these insanely wonderful little vibrations.

Alan gasped and groaned Dave’s name, his fingers sinking into Dave’s hair as he watched Dave’s mouth taking him in, the front of Dave’s jeans already extended with his own bulge. Then Dave started touching himself as he sucked Alan, which honestly was one of the hottest things Alan had ever seen.

“Oh fuck, Dave.” Alan’s hands tightened in Dave’s hair, watching his cock disappear in and out of Dave’s warm, velvety mouth. He knew Dave was trying to make it good for him, make it slick and hot and easy so Alan could thrust in as much as he wanted. But at the same time, Dave was being a sly bastard and putting on a show for him, like the consummate performer he was. Alan knew Dave was completely getting off on Alan watching him on his knees like this, so Alan fought against the instinct to shut his eyes and just thrust at will into Dave’s mouth. No, he was going to watch every bit of this.

Dave’s head was starting to bob up and down on Alan’s cock, his hand creeping back to caress Alan’s balls as his other hand worked his shaft, what his mouth couldn’t cover. Distantly, the perfectionist in Alan was taking notes for what to do next time when it was his turn to suck Dave, but most of Alan’s brain had melted and handed control of his body entirely to his erection. He could feel his orgasm building in the base of his spine, his knees trembling as his hands cradled Dave’s head, tugging on his hair in warning. Instead of pulling off, Dave’s mouth went lax as he took Alan in even deeper, and the suction was so warm and wet and glorious that Alan came with a shout down Dave’s throat, moaning when he felt Dave’s throat working to swallow him down.

Alan slumped against the counter when Dave pulled his mouth off, tucking Alan back into his jeans before he stood up, licking his lips. Those beautiful, plush lips of his were red and abused, and Alan leaned in to kiss him again, moaning when he could taste himself in Dave’s mouth. “God, I love you,” he panted as he rested his forehead against Dave’s shoulder, blindly pawing at the clear outline of Dave’s erection in his jeans.

“That’s just the orgasm talking,” Dave said with a laugh, ruffling Alan’s hair.

Alan stilled for a moment, lifting his head so he could look Dave in the eyes. “No, it wasn’t.”

Dave’s smile went a little wobbly for the quickest second before he recovered. “You sap. C’mon then, the food can wait. Let’s take a shower and see how your ‘lessons’ are coming along.”  
  


***  
  


**1996 - Los Angeles, USA**

Kess didn’t say a word, but Dave instinctively knew he was madder than hell. It was in Kess’s stiff, jerky movements as he shoved the gear stick in reverse, slowly backing out of the lot while journalists and photographers swarmed the car, shouting their questions, shouting Dave’s name. Camera flashes were going off everywhere like lightning. Dave smiled blandly at all of them and took a deep drag of his cigarette, blowing out a cloud of smoke as the car peeled out from the LAPD parking lot.

Now that the press and TV crews were left far behind, the silence in the car was deafening. Dave wanted to turn on the radio, but when his hand inched towards the stereo, he could _feel_ Kess’s eyes boring a hole through him, so Dave retracted his hand. Instead, he lit another cigarette.

They were somewhere near North Cahuenga Boulevard when Kess finally spoke: “Is anyone waiting for you at home?” His words were tight and clipped, his rage barely contained.

Dave slowly shook his head. That was exactly how he’d arranged it now, for the past two years: being alone. If he was alone, he couldn’t drag anyone down with him.

“I can’t believe--” Kess started, before cutting off his own words. He was clearly still fuming. Dave eyed him warily. When most people thought of Kess, they still harboured that image of the jolly, shaggy-haired accountant in ‘101’, declaring to the world that they were making a lot of money, a load of money. That rotund bloke was a world away from the tired, beaten, furious man in the driver’s seat who’d just come to bail Dave out from jail.

“What’s the big deal?” Dave said with a lightness he didn’t feel, tapping the ash outside the window. “I didn’t die, right?” _Couldn’t even do that properly,_ he was tempted to add.

“Goddammit, Dave.” Kess slammed his foot down on the accelerator with such force that the car lurched forward, making Dave fumble with his cigarette. “Jesus H. Christ, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me?” Dave laughed bitterly, his hands shaking as he took another drag. “How much time do you have, Johnny?”

Kess’s grip on the steering wheel was so tight that Dave could see his knuckles were white. “I keep watching you piss your life away, not saying a damn word--”

“You’re not my bloody minder, all right?” Dave didn’t want to raise his voice, but he’d almost fucking died and had just gotten released from jail, and a lecture was the last thing he wanted.

“Right now, I’m the closest thing you have to one,” Kess said grimly. “And you better fucking believe this is the last time I’m letting you pull a stunt like this.”

“‘Letting’ me? Give me a fuckin’ break,” Dave spat out. He knew he was on the brink of a massive breakdown, and he didn’t want to have it in front of Kess. “You’re an employee, man. That’s why you care, right? Who’s gonna earn you those millions if good old Dave Gahan croaks?”

Instead of getting Kess all riled up and even angrier, that statement made him look stricken, deflated. “You think I only care about the money?” Kess said quietly. For some reason, Dave’s mind echoed with that famous declaration from Kess so many years ago in ‘101’: _tons of money!_

Dave didn’t answer him, adjusting his sunglasses as he stared out of the window. They were driving past rows and rows of beautiful houses, the Californian palm trees swaying in the sun. Dave had a sudden fierce longing for a normal life inside one of those houses, an ordinary life. He longed for Jack, to be able to give his son a normal dad who didn’t OD from speedballs, a dad who could take care of him.

They stopped at a red light, watching as a young couple crossed the road. “It would be so much easier if I just didn’t give a shit about you,” Kess said with a tight laugh. “You think I wanted to be the one to call your mom? Hear her cry on the phone, huh?”

Dave’s vision became blurry. He hastily swiped at his wet eyes.

“I’ll be damned if I have to make another phone call like that,” Kess said with a sigh. “I’m going to make sure you get on that court-ordered detox program, first thing tomorrow.”

As much as Dave understood what a close shave he’d had, the thought of going cold turkey made his stomach bottom out. He sat there in mute terror, sucking on his cigarette with trembling hands.

“I can’t deal with you now, man.” Every part of Kess looked completely defeated and exhausted; even his moustache was drooping. “Fuck, I’m so glad Daryl told Alan not to come to LA. God knows the shit you would have said to him.”

Dave whipped around, staring at Kess in shock. “Al wanted to come?”

“Like I said, I told Daryl it wasn’t a good idea.” Kess eyed Dave severely. “Don’t give me that look. You sure you want Alan to see you like this?”

Dave caught sight of himself in the rear view mirror. He had scrapes and bruises on his cheeks, and even through the sunglasses he could see his eyes were sunken in, like he’d been punched twice. His hair was a stringy, greasy mess. He looked disgusting, pathetic.

No, he wouldn’t have wanted Alan to see him like this.  
  


***

**1997 - New York City, USA**

_Dave was stunned to find himself back in his old living room in the Hollywood Hills house. The curtains were drawn, blocking out the eternally cheerful LA sunshine and casting everything in an artificial sense of dark gloom. He gazed around the room, eyes skittering over the coffee table that was still dusted over with a white powdery residue - whether it was from coke or smack, he didn’t know. The telly was running in the background, Judge Judy admonishing some arsehole for fleeing a paternity test._

_He yanked up his sleeves, crying out in agony at all the fresh track marks littered up and down his arms. Only yesterday he’d noticed how they’d all faded, when Alan had been tracing his fingers up and down the veins in Dave’s arms. Had all his hard work vanished overnight? Fear and panic were bottling in his throat. Dave didn’t know which was worse: Alan’s inevitable crushing disappointment, or his own._

_Getting unsteadily to his feet, Dave made his way to the curtains, yanking them open. To his confusion, it wasn’t LA outside but the muted grey landscape of Bas instead. Although his head was spinning, Dave forced himself to the bathroom, dry-mouthed and retching in panic._

_The sight of Alan sitting in the bathtub stopped him cold._

_Except this wasn’t the Alan he’d been living with over the past few weeks. This was a much younger Alan clad entirely in black leather, his hair done up with hairspray and gel, his eyes dark with eyeliner. He had his knees drawn up against his body, watching Dave with very intense curiosity. “What are you doing?” Young Alan asked him._

_“You can’t be real,” Dave gasped out. Between his relapse and a strange Alan and the fact that he’d somehow teleported back to Bas over the past 24 hours, Dave was fast losing his grip on reality. “You’re not real.”_

_Young Alan glanced down at Dave’s hands. “Give me the drugs.”_

_Dave followed his gaze, blinking back tears when he realised he was holding a belt in one hand and a syringe in the other. “I swear, I gave it up--”_

_When he looked up again, Alan had somehow morphed into Teresa, still as beautiful and terrifying as the day she’d left him. Her dark eyes were glittering with approval. “I forgot to buy lunch,” she said, standing up in the tub and walking over to him as Dave watched in horror. “Be a doll and buy me something, would you sweetheart?”_

Dave shot up in bed, shaking and covered with sweat. Nothing could describe the overwhelming relief he felt once he spotted the familiar interiors of his New York flat. Beside him, Alan was fast asleep, snoring softly with his head shoved under a pillow. Dave shut his eyes, covering his face with trembling hands. He wanted to cry - but even worse was the very familiar hunger clouding his mind and his senses, snaking its way through his veins and leaving him desperate for the only way he knew how to soothe it.

Rummaging through his drawer for the familiar orange bottle, Dave stumbled to the kitchen and finally managed to fill a glass of water after three tries. Fishing out a strip of film from the bottle, he slipped the suboxone under his tongue and shut his eyes as he leaned against the counter, waiting for it to dissolve. Once a few minutes had passed and he couldn’t feel it anymore, he gulped down the water. He felt-- okay, he still felt like he wanted to jab something into his arm, but at least his heart rate was slowing down a little.

 _Fucking calm down, Gahan_ , he mentally chided himself, taking in deep calming breaths. That all-too-familiar feeling of mild euphoria was quickly replacing his panic, but all he could think about was Alan in the bedroom, asleep and oblivious to Dave’s little breakdown. Part of him wanted to go to Alan on his knees and confess everything, but another part of him was even more afraid of driving Alan away.

Still unsure what to do, Dave knew that no matter what, he didn’t want Alan to find him like this - slumped in the kitchen like some relapsed junkie. Digging some clothes out of the waiting pile of laundry, Dave quickly got dressed and left the flat. He didn’t even know what time it was, but it was still dark outside. The doorman even asked Dave if he was alright, not quite looking convinced at Dave’s overly cheery answer.

Dave headed straight for the Hudson, shoving his hands into his pockets and letting the biting cold wind in his face keep him awake and alert. He knew all too well where the nearest dealer would be, but he fought against every instinct he had propelling him there. Instead he made his way to the riverside and sank onto one of the benches there, still haunted by the last vestiges of his far-too-real dream. The appearance of a younger Alan had unsettled him, but seeing Teresa’s face again had overwhelmed him in a way the reappearance of the syringe in his hands hadn’t.

“Fuck.” Dave pulled at his hair, hating himself and every single fucking one of his horrible choices that had almost caused him to lose Jack, his mum, even Alan.

Guilt was eating at him for leaving Alan alone in the flat, but Dave just couldn’t face him now, not when they were finally together. Alan trusted in him, believed in him. But he was always going to be fucked up, always going to be an unfair burden on Alan’s shoulders.

Once the suboxone had worn off, Dave realised that the sky was already beginning to turn a pale blue. He blinked, a bit horrified that he’d sat outside until almost dawn. Zipping up his jacket, Dave made his way back to his building, more tired and wretched than ever. The doormen had changed shifts, and an oblivious Ronnie greeted him hello. Once he was in the lift, Dave slumped against the wall, hoping against hope that Alan would still be asleep. He had no proper explanation for his behaviour tonight.

Unfortunately, his luck had run out. When he opened the door, he found Alan standing in the living room in a bathrobe, speaking to someone on the phone. The relief on his face once he spotted Dave was immense. “It’s alright, he just got home,” Alan said to whoever was on the line. “I’ll call you later, mate.”

Once Alan hung up, Dave shucked his jacket. “Who was that?”

Instead of answering him, Alan regarded him with an eerily calm expression. “Where were you?”

Dave rubbed his face in frustration. “Fuck-- I’m really sorry, Al. I didn’t think you’d-- I had a really bad episode.”

“So why did you leave?”

Dave couldn’t tell him that he didn’t think he could face Alan’s disappointment, so he let out a shaky sigh, hating himself even more. “I’m really sorry.”

Alan seemed to be considering something. Outwardly he didn’t look upset, but Dave knew from experience how carefully Alan guarded his anger. “Are you better now?” he asked quietly.

Dave nodded mutely, holding up the subs. Alan let out a quiet sigh, running a hand through his already tousled hair.

“We’ll talk later,” he said decisively. “I’m going back to sleep.” Once Dave nodded again, Alan headed back towards their bedroom, but he re-emerged with a pillow and let himself into the guest bedroom instead, closing the door with a soft click.  
  


***  
  


Dave slept in fits and starts until noon. He still felt exhausted and depleted, but the sleep deprivation was nothing compared to the ache of his empty bed. He wondered if Alan was already up, or if he had even slept at all. Dave dreaded the thought of having to face Alan; here was proof that Dave seemed fantastically gifted in fucking up all his relationships so far.

He felt marginally better after a shower, but was still far too afraid to venture outside and face Alan. Even worse - what if Alan felt this was all pointless and decided to head back to the UK? That thought made Dave want to throw up, even more than the reminder of Teresa’s face. He forced himself to inhale and exhale deeply, focusing on his measured breaths.

After dithering for a few minutes, he steeled his nerves and finally opened the door. To his surprise, the smell of coffee and bacon greeted him, along with the blare of the telly. In the living room, Alan was lounging on the sofa, watching the news and sipping a mug of coffee. He didn’t look up when Dave shuffled past him.

In the kitchen, Dave found a plate of eggs and bacon waiting for him, along with his own coffee - which he preferred a lot stronger and darker than how Alan took his own. Hesitating whether to join Alan in the living room, he decided that further avoiding Alan would just make things worse and deepen the gulf between them. He brought his plate and coffee to the living room, a bit heartened when Alan slid aside on the sofa to make space for him.

Sitting down, Dave cast a tentative look at Alan, who was still watching the news. “Thanks for the food,” he said softly, to which Alan just nodded without looking at him.

After eating in silence, Dave cleared the plates and did the dishes while Alan took a shower. He tried not to think about how terrified he was that Alan would get dressed and exit the flat without a word, leaving Dave to his own terrible devices. And Dave couldn’t - and wouldn’t - protest, because he’d done the same fucking thing to Alan last night.

He lingered in the kitchen for as long as he could, even after he heard Alan moving around in the bedroom. Sure enough, Alan soon appeared in the kitchen doorway, fully dressed and his hair neatly combed. Dave avoided his gaze, wiping the same spot on the counter repeatedly.

“Thought we could take a walk,” Alan said, much to Dave’s surprise. “I haven’t properly seen Central Park yet.”

Dave eyed him quizzically. After fully expecting Alan to storm out, this caught him completely off-guard. “You want me to take you?”

Alan nodded, his expression still unreadable as he slipped on his gloves. “I’ll wait in the living room.”

Dave was left standing by the dishwasher, stunned and confused. Shaking his head as if to clear it, he decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth, turning off the dishwasher before he went to get ready.  
  


***  
  


They took a cab this time instead of the subway. Thankfully they didn’t have to sit in uncomfortable silence as their chatty driver started rattling off a list of tourist sites for them to visit once he heard their accents. Alan was doing a great job at keeping up the polite banter, which was good because Dave was too anxious and grumpy to talk to anyone besides Alan.

They got off at the west entrance near the Dakota, so Alan could get a proper look at the Strawberry Fields memorial. There were fans there laying down flowers on the ‘Imagine’ mosaic, and Alan circled a group of teary Japanese fans holding candles as he snapped pictures of the garden and the mural. Dave just watched him mutely, wondering what Alan was up to and when they were going to address what happened last night. The suspense was killing him, but at the same time, Dave had a deep-seated faith that Alan wouldn’t ditch him at the first sign of trouble. The fact that Alan had cooked for him this morning and made him coffee despite being angry with him was reassuring, to say the least.

Once Alan was done, they made their way further into the park, aimlessly following the meandering paths as Dave smiled at every dog they walked past. He missed Striped fiercely, but it comforted him to think of her getting spoiled silly by Flood’s kids.

Alan stopped at a vendor to buy two bottles of water, of which he handed one to Dave who nodded in thanks. They were at a much quieter corner of the park now, and Alan made his way over to an empty bench in the shade which looked clean enough. Dave sat down beside him, taking uncertain sips of his water. Although it was a cold day, there were still a few joggers in the park, running in full tracksuits with earmuffs and red cheeks.

“What happened last night?” Alan asked him, looking at him carefully. “Tell me, from the beginning.”

So Dave told him. About the dream, Teresa’s appearance, then waking up feeling sick to his stomach and like he needed to snort something, jab something, just get something inside him to stop the fear and panic. He explained how he never wanted to revisit the agony he’d experienced during his first few weeks of withdrawal. It’d been so awful that it had made him seriously wonder whether death was less painful, and the only thing that had stopped him from checking out was the thought of Jack growing up without a father. Alan listened to it all with a grave and thoughtful expression, not once interrupting Dave.

Then Dave went on to talk about how he hadn’t wanted Alan to be disappointed in him, how sobriety was something Dave had to battle for everyday. How what Alan had seen that night in Chichester had barely scratched the surface, how Dave hated relying on subs to get better, how he was terrified they were a gateway back to heroin. How he’d fled last night because he couldn’t bear putting Alan through more heartache, especially when they were finally together. Dave trailed off here, his throat dry as sandpaper but his water bottle already empty.

Alan didn’t say anything for the longest time. Instead he just stared down at his own bottle, peeling off the label bit by bit. Dave could practically hear the cogs in Alan’s head turning. Alan was the opposite of him, always more driven by logic than emotion, and in a way they’d balanced each other out over the years. But now-- Dave was dying to know what Alan was thinking. Was he deciding whether to cut his losses?

Finally Alan spoke. “I’m not angry about-- you feeling like you were going to relapse, y'know? ” he said. “I accepted that, as part of-- well, us. And I want to help you through it.”

Dave quickly nodded. He could see where Alan was going with this.

“What I’m upset about,” Alan seemed to be choosing his words very carefully now, “is that you felt you had to go through it alone. And you went off without saying a word. No note, no nothing. I didn’t know where you’d gone. Fuck, what if you’d gotten mugged or something? I wasn’t even sure whether to call the police.” Alan’s mouth was a thin flat line now. “Thank goodness Flood convinced me to wait a little longer.”

Dave wanted to explain that he hadn’t thought Alan would wake up while he was gone, but he knew that was a weak excuse that would just make things worse. “I’m sorry, Charlie,” he whispered.

Alan let out a sigh. “I know you are. Look, we’re both not fools. Obviously, falling in love with someone isn’t going to magically solve all our problems. But you have to understand - you’re no longer alone in this. You don’t have to be. And I’m not your therapist or your sponsor, but you can’t just shut me out like this. If we’re going to do this--” Here, Alan gestured between the both of them, “then we need to do this together.”

Dave was just nodding numbly. Even though they were out in public, he really needed to touch Alan now in some way or form. And maybe Alan felt the same way, because he glanced around to make sure they were alone before he reached over and placed his gloved hand on top of Dave’s.

“I’m really sorry,” Dave said again, clearing his throat when his voice broke. “I-- Al, I didn’t--”

“I know, I know.” Alan was now leaning over, wrapping his arms around Dave tightly. “We’ll sort this out together, yeah?”

Dave nodded with more certainty this time, burying his nose in Alan’s shoulder for a deep whiff of his scent which soothed him. Once Dave felt like he had a hold on himself again, he raised his head and looked at Alan properly. “For the record, I know you’ve never--- I mean, I know you always tried. Even when I almost died in LA. I knew you wanted to come see me.”

Alan’s eyes widened in surprise. “You knew?”

“Johnny told me.” Dave pressed his face against Alan’s shoulder again, taking a few shivering breaths. “You never gave up on me, did you?”

He felt Alan’s hand gently thwapping him on the back of the head. “You’re stuck with me for life, you idiot.”

Letting out a watery laugh, Dave discreetly pressed a kiss against the side of Alan’s neck before releasing him. “I love you too, Al.”


	12. Feelings are Intense, Words are Trivial

**1997 - New York City, USA**

After the incident with Dave’s near-relapse, things were slowly starting to get a lot better between them. Alan could sense that Dave was making an effort to be more open with him, and in turn he tried his best to be patient and understanding. Alan had a very high tolerance in general when it came to relationships; after all, he’d lived with Jeri for years and had put up with having his dressing table littered with birthstones, geodes and amulets, or rows of dreamcatchers and native charms hung over their bed. In comparison, Dave was already a relatively easy person to live with. They’d never bumped heads while sharing hotel rooms in the past, and Dave seemed insistent that Alan treat the Tribeca loft as his own.

Alan could well understand where Dave was coming from. After all, Dave had fit in so well in Chichester, and Alan was already scheming a way to have Dave fly back and join him for the holidays, at least. Beyond that? Alan didn’t know, and he hated that it unsettled him.

Once he’d confirmed availability with the various artists and musicians he wanted to work with, Alan finally had a firm departure date on the 7th of November, which was the very latest he could push it. He decided to bring it up after lunch one afternoon when they were lounging together on the sofa, Alan watching a QPR match he’d recorded on the VCR while Dave was engrossed in the latest issue of Q. “Oh, I need to tell you-- I have to fly back by the seventh,” Alan said, his fingers running idly through Dave’s hair.

He didn’t miss the way the corners of Dave’s mouth tugged down. “Fuck, so soon?”

Alan sighed. He couldn’t put off the album any longer. “I tried, but--”

“Yeah, I understand.” Dave sat up from where he was resting on Alan’s lap, tossing the mag aside. “Sorry, I know I already got in the way of your next album.”

“You didn’t. I was the stupid git who jumped on a plane to come here.” Alan flashed him a smile, squeezing his hand. “Can’t you come back with me?”

Dave’s expression was torn between longing and resignation. “I really want to, but I need to make arrangements, y’know? Finding somewhere I can continue my treatment and the like.”

Alan nodded. “And you just started lessons with Evelyn.”

Dave rubbed the back of his neck, his face conflicted. “I could try to find someone else in London,” he offered.

“No,” Alan said firmly. “You seem really comfortable with her. Don’t change on my account.”

They both sat in silence for a while, thinking about their vastly different lives and commitments. Alan knew that Dave would have to consult his therapist and doctors in order to find a suitable centre in the UK that they could hand over the reins of his treatment to, and that couldn’t be arranged overnight. Alan had also seen the lightning quick progress Dave was making with Evelyn, and he didn’t want Dave to give that up just for him.

“What are we going to do, Al?” Dave asked him. “I mean, I did intend to go back to England for the holidays and see you and Jack, at least. But-- what about the long term?”

“I don’t know,” Alan admitted. “I like New York a lot, but I can’t leave the UK for good, you know? I sank a lot of money into the house, especially for the studio.”

Sighing again, Dave shifted both of them about so that they were both lying down, Alan’s arms around him from behind. “What if we split our time between our respective houses?” Dave suggested, slotting his legs in between Alan’s. “I could see Jack more when we’re in England. But I wouldn’t have to give up New York either.”

Alan thought it over. It was actually a decent compromise for a long term solution. “It could work.”

Dave seemed vastly cheered by Alan’s agreement. “Of course it would.” He waggled his eyebrows at Alan in a bid at being charming, making Alan laugh. “I’m a fuckin’ genius.”

Reaching over his shoulder for a cushion, Alan tried to smother Dave with it, both of them batting at each other in helpless laughter until Dave went on the offensive, attacking Alan’s face with sloppy kisses that made Alan yell in protest. Settling in each other’s arms again, Alan at least felt a lot better about the prospects for their living arrangements. They could always iron out the details later, but for now, he was at least relatively assured that both of them were going to try and make this work in the long run.  
  


***  
  


When he couldn’t put it off anymore, Alan finally called British Airways with a heavy heart and booked a ticket back to Heathrow. It meant he had less than a week left with Dave in New York, so they would have to make the most of their remaining time until Dave could fly back to England for the holidays.

For his part, Alan could see Dave was trying his best to keep up a cheerful front and show Alan as much of his beloved New York as possible while there was still time. Dave really was right in the sense that most people never bothered them while they were out dining or walking around, even though Alan had caught the spark of recognition in quite a few faces amongst the public. Dave brought him to the other boroughs too, including one memorable dinner at Dave’s favourite Chinese-Malaysian restaurant in Queens, as well as a disastrous trip aboard the Staten Island ferry to visit the Statue of Liberty, both of them huddled over in freezing cold rain.

On Halloween itself, Dave made him put on a costume and took him out to a few clubs. Alan was dressed in a suit as one of the mafia blokes from Pulp Fiction, while Dave dyed a white streak in his hair and put on globs of eyeliner to complete his Dave Vanian costume. “Dave dressed as Dave, get it?” a beaming Dave told him while they were in line at the club, and Alan had to shake his head at himself for being in love with such a ridiculous man.

At Dave’s favourite rock club in Midtown, they were definitely recognised more often than not. Alan inwardly sighed as the familiar refrain of ‘Enjoy the Silence’ started booming over the club’s speakers, causing a great cheer amongst the crowd as everyone looked over at them, the DJ giving them a sharp salute. But Alan was good at keeping up appearances, smiling politely for people who bought them drinks or those with cameras who asked for a picture.

It was still an early night by the time they stumbled out of the club, and Alan suggested walking all the way back home so they could see kids trick-or-treating, which was something Alan rarely got to see in England. He caught Dave’s wistful expression as they passed a group of young boys dressed as Ninja Turtles, and Alan knew Dave must have been thinking of Jack. He discreetly gave Dave’s hand a quick squeeze, heartened when Dave briefly squeezed back in understanding before letting go.  
  


***  
  


As October passed into November, Alan was a little worried about leaving Dave to his devices for a few weeks. He knew he had to trust Dave to do the right thing and seek help if he ever found himself hovering on the edge of relapse again. Alan hated not being here for him for the rest of November; the helplessness of seeing someone he loved being in pain and not being able to help them was one of the worst feelings in the world.

“I’ll find a facility in the UK for my follow-up appointments,” Dave assured him. They were having dinner in the living room, both of them half-watching some Scorsese film. “And Mike’s okay with me checking in with him over the phone. Guess he was more worried I was gonna ditch him for another sponsor.”

Alan stopped eating. “You’re not, are you?” He’d met Big Mike a total of three times by now, and he’d grown very fond of the bloke.

“Course not.” Dave grinned at him. “He was the one who made me realise I might have a shot with you.”

Alan rolled his eyes, adjusting his legs so Dave could rest his feet on his lap. “I still can’t believe you didn’t say anything earlier to me.” He kept his tone light here, even though he was only half-joking. “So many years, wasted.”

When Dave didn’t say anything, Alan looked up at him to find Dave’s lips pursed in thought, his fingers stroking his mouth the way he usually did whenever he was mulling over something. “I did try, y’know,” he finally said. “I kept telling you I loved you.”

Alan put down his pasta, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. “I thought you were, like-- you know, saying it like in a platonic way.”

“I was!” Dave said with a wistful laugh. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t mean it the other way too.”

Alan watched him play with his numerous rings. “Do you remember one night in Berlin, when we went to Corelles without Gareth?” he suddenly said.

Reaching for his cigarillos, Dave lit one and took a deep drag of it. There was a very faraway look in his eyes now. “Yeah, I remember it,” he said quietly.

“Were you planning to say something to me then? About--” Here, Alan gestured between both of them.

Another husky laugh as Dave blew out another stream of smoke. “Yeah, but changed my mind in the end. And it worked out, didn’t it? Even if you’d felt the same then, we might just have fooled around, y’know?”

Alan didn’t know how the younger version of him would have reacted, but he was realistic enough to admit that it might have strained things between him and Dave in the end, as well as caused even more tension within the band. “Yeah, I suppose.”

After Dave finished smoking, he crawled over and made himself comfortable in Alan’s arms. “Things happened for a reason,” he said softly. “And since we ended up here, I’m okay with that. You know what I mean, right?”

Despite a lump in his throat for all the lost years and all the pain Dave had gone through, Alan knew Dave had a good point. “Yeah I do,” he said, pressing his lips against Dave’s temple and letting them remain there.  
  


***  
  


**1988 - Pasadena, USA**

The roar of the crowd in the Rose Bowl was so loud that Alan’s ears were ringing. He couldn’t even hear himself think or sing, let alone make out Dave’s and Martin’s vocals on the monitor speakers. They’d all been flying blind for the latter half of the set since ‘Nothing’, and Dave’s voice must have given out around the same time because Alan could see he was hunched over as he sang, his face and throat strained with painful exertion. Over in the midst of the audience, Alan spotted JD and his crew frantically trying to work their magic, their torchlights flashing over the soundboard. But Alan doubted it would make a difference.

It didn’t matter anyway. He was running high on the energy of the audience, which seemed to be moving as one united mass, one united voice: singing all their songs back at them, lyric for lyric, their arms in the air and their screams piercing the night. Alan had never experienced anything like it. When he chanced a look over at the others, Martin flashed him an incredulous grin - _can you believe this?_ \- and Fletch was waving his arms about like one of the Village People.

They were now in the middle of ‘Never Let Me Down Again’, which was always one of Alan’s favourites to play live on this tour. But something was different tonight, electricity crackling in the air like the atmosphere before a lightning storm. Alan couldn’t keep his eyes off Dave, who was running up and down the stage like a madman, riling up the crowd as his white shirt billowed in the wind.

During the instrumental part of the Split mix, Alan wasn’t sure what made Dave raise his arms and start urging the audience to follow suit. But in moments, _everyone_ was doing as he commanded and waving their arms in the air, from the people squashed in the front rows to the anonymous masses huddled in the stadium seats. Alan was awestruck as he took in the sight of thousands and thousands of hands waving back and forth in the air, like an ocean wave rippling through the audience. His skin was prickling with an awareness of witnessing something truly magical, a once-in-a-lifetime event. He’d never felt so unified with 60,000 other people before.

From a quick glance, he could see the other lads were equally moved. Martin was dragging a hand through his hair and visibly trying to contain his emotions, while Fletch was staring out at the waving sea of hands in utter amazement. Alan couldn’t quite see Dave’s face from where he was standing, but he smiled when Dave took off his shirt and launched it into the rabid audience. Penny and his crew were running everywhere, panning their cameras to take in the spectacle and document it for posterity. But Alan highly doubted they would be able to capture the miraculous atmosphere right now, with sixty thousand people moving and singing as one unit.

Alan was still in a dreamlike state when the song unfortunately came to an end, Dave shouting, “Thank you!” as he bowed to the audience. As they vacated the stage, they had a few minutes to gather themselves for the first of two encores, but Alan didn’t think it would be enough time for anything other than washing his face and grabbing another drink. Staff and crew darted around them backstage, and Alan was handed a cold bottle of water and a towel. He gulped it down in gratitude, smiling as Dave passed him on shaky legs, his eyes suspiciously shiny.

“You alright?” Alan passed Dave the rest of his water; he looked like he needed it more as he drained the rest of it.

“Did you see that, Al?” Dave was still smiling in disbelief, shaking his head. “All those fuckin’ people. Jesus.”

“I know.’ Alan rubbed Dave’s sweaty back, knowing that they didn’t need words for this particular point in time. Dave was obviously overwhelmed, while Alan was still trying to absorb the enormity of the evening. Even then, he was a little annoyed at himself for being unable to enjoy the moment the way Dave was; Alan’s mind was already ticking away about all the little things he needed to tell the technicians to fix before their two encores.

“C’mon, mate.” Alan nudged Dave towards the loos. “We’d better freshen up, yeah? Make ourselves look pretty again before we have to get back onstage.”

Normally Dave would have been ready with a joke or witty comeback, but he must have been really shaken because he simply nodded, letting Alan support him as they made their way to the VIP restrooms.  
  


***  
  


It stood to reason that the most epic performance of their career - so far - would be followed by the most epic afterparty Alan had ever had the pleasure to attend. Throughout the night, he must have talked, drank and danced with hundreds of people - some of whom he knew intimately, as well as others who were complete strangers. But it didn’t matter, because Alan was in an extremely generous mood tonight. Somehow there was always a drink in his hand, and someone in the club was passing around a spliff that he had a few good tokes of. He felt mellow, thrilled and extremely content with life in general. Behind him, he could hear Martin’s trademark laugh, along with Fletch loudly egging him on to do something cheeky. Alan had no idea what they were up to, though. He was giving Fletch a wide berth; things were still a bit strained between them after they'd come to blows in Salt Lake City.

“Charlie!” Someone’s sweaty arm was slung across his shoulder, and Alan found himself grinning as a completely plastered Dave sagged against him, his beer sloshing out of his glass. “There you are! Was looking for you earlier.”

Alan fondly rubbed the back of Dave’s head. “I never went anywhere, you twat. You’re thoroughly pissed, by the way.”

The smile Dave gave him was bright and childlike. “I am?” He looked down at his hands and laughed boyishly. “I am!”

“Think we all are, to be honest.” Alan wasn’t quite dead drunk yet, but it wouldn’t be long before either Stan or Ron Fellini showed up. He shifted more weight onto his right leg so he could better support Dave, who was blinking in a daze and leaning more and more against him. “S’alright, we deserve it.”

“Let me tell you, Al.” Dave took a long swig of his drink before rubbing at his nose. “Fuckin’ tonight, man. I never thought-- y’know? Like, wow.”

Despite Dave’s disjointed sentences, Alan knew exactly what he meant. “Yeah, I know.” He hadn’t felt this elated ever, not even when Gary Micklewhite scored that last minute equaliser for QPR against Newcastle four years ago. Alan felt compelled to share this with his friend, even though Dave rarely gave a fuck about football.

But the way Dave was smiling at him made Alan’s words die on the tip of his tongue, because there was such affection in the way he was looking at Alan. “I’m so-- I’m grateful for tonight. You know? Like, sharing it with you.” At this point, a shadow of something dark briefly crossed his face. “We’ll never experience anything like it again.”

“That’s bollocks,” Alan chided him. He knew Dave had been profoundly depressed earlier, in the aftermath of the gig. Jo had mentioned to Alan that she’d been worried about Dave ranting that this was all over, that they could only go downhill from here. “Besides,” Alan added, trying to sound cheerful. “Even if this all ends in tears, like Penny says-- we still have our back-up careers as underwear models.”

They shared a solemn stare before bursting into hysterical giggles, the weed finally hitting Alan while Dave was probably already high on whatever he’d been taking all night.

Dave was still hiccupping with laughter, his eyes soft and fond. “I love you, man,” he blurted out, resting his forehead on Alan’s shoulder. “Fuckin’ love you so much.”

Alan ruffled Dave’s hair. “Okay, think you’ve had enough. C’mon, let’s go get some water.”

“Noooo,” Dave whined, as though Alan had suggested that they go find someone to kick them in the groin instead. “Want to stay here.”

Nonetheless they managed to stumble towards the bar, accepting congratulations along the way from journalists, record label execs and even one of the blokes from OMD. Dave spotted some friends he knew from LA, while Alan stopped to chat with Penny, Chris and some of the bus kids. After talking to what felt like a million people, he turned around to find that Dave had been dragged off to another table with the KROQ staffers. Unsure why he felt a sense of loss - he’d been seeing Dave day in, day out for the past nine months after all - Alan got the water he came for and decided to keep enjoying the party. If Dave was right and this was their last chance to soar, Alan was going to thoroughly savour what he could for now.

***  
  


**1997 - New York City, USA**

“Slowly,” Dave said between gritted teeth, taking deep breaths. “Just-- yeah, that’s it. Fuck.”

Alan stopped moving, hovering above Dave with a worried expression. His hands were so warm and steady, his long fingers cradling Dave’s face with such care. “Want me to stop?”

“Don’t you dare,” Dave hissed out so fiercely that it made Alan laugh. “It’s been a while. I just need a bit of time, y’know?”

Alan studied him in concern, his eyes more grey than blue in the warm light from the bedside lamp. “You sure?”

“Yeah, give me a minute.” Dave shifted his hips slightly. He felt so full now, with Alan finally inside him, his inner thighs all covered in slick and Alan’s precome. It was nothing like the few occasions he’d been with other men. For starters, he hadn’t loved any of them. They’d been quick, anonymous encounters in foreign hotel rooms, and he couldn’t even remember any of their faces. Sure, the physical act itself had been good at times, especially if the bloke he’d been with knew what he was doing. But none of those encounters had ever had an emotional component to it, not with the depth of what he felt for Alan now.

Part of Alan’s fringe was hanging down and obscuring his face, so Dave reached up and combed it back, staring at him and taking him in. After so many years, Alan was all the more lovely to him for his familiarity and little imperfections: the small bump that interrupted the long slope of his nose, the beginnings of crows’ feet crinkling the corners of his eyes, the unevenness of his teeth. But Dave loved his smile, loved the elegant profile of him that he’d sneak a peek at when they were watching a movie, loved how Alan’s eyes would light up every time Dave walked into a room.

“You sure you’re alright?” Alan was starting to look worried now.

“Kiss me,” Dave whispered. “Please, Al.”

Alan didn’t even hesitate as he cupped Dave’s face before leaning down and slanting their mouths together, seducing Dave into a kiss that was slowly deepening. Dave’s hands reached up to circle Alan’s biceps, feeling the strain in his muscles of how still he must be keeping himself to not hurt Dave. This turned Dave on even more, and he wrapped a leg around Alan’s hip, his cock starting to harden again against Alan’s firm stomach.

“Fuck,” Alan whispered between kisses, reaching down to start stroking Dave in earnest. “Why can’t I stop kissing you?”

“Then don’t.” Dave tangled his hands in Alan’s hair, yanking him down for a much filthier kiss than the first one. The initial pain was starting to recede, mingled with pleasure now as Alan’s grip tightened a little, applying the pressure Dave needed. “Oh God, Al--”

Dave’s little moans were making Alan growl into his mouth, the kiss quickly turning dirty and possessive as Alan’s tongue swept over every single inch of his mouth, his fingers shaky against Dave’s cheek as his other hand quickly sped up its strokes. Dave slid his hands behind to grip Alan’s arse, squeezing the firm muscle there just to hear Alan moan. Nothing turned Dave on quicker than being the reason Alan was quickly going mad, just for him.

Breaking off the kiss, Dave moved the pillow under his hips into a more comfortable position. “Okay, start moving.”

“You su--”

“Ask me if I’m sure again and I’m going to kick you out of bed and finish the job myself,” Dave threatened, which made Alan chuckle breathlessly.

“I want to see that one day, though,” Alan admitted, his hips starting to move forward in little thrusts and making Dave mewl. “Remember that day when you blew me in the kitchen? Watching you touch yourself almost made me come on the spot.”

Dave shut his eyes with a low “mmm”, beyond turned on at the thought of letting Alan watch him pleasure himself. As cliché as it sounded, there was nothing he loved more than putting on a show, and there was no better appreciative audience than Alan watching him with dark, hungry eyes. “Please, fuck me, Charlie.”

Alan bent down to give him one last firm kiss on the mouth before his lips trailed downwards, making their home in the juncture of Dave’s neck and shoulder. Dave moaned helplessly as he felt the sharp edge of Alan’s teeth possessively marking him, both his legs now wrapped around Alan’s waist as they began moving in earnest.

Although it was Alan’s first time doing this, Dave had to hang on for dear life as Alan’s powerful thrusts sent both of them shifting towards the edge of the bed, the sheets crumpled and reeking of sweat and sex as Alan fucked him harder and harder, his mouth latched onto Dave’s neck with deep, sucking kisses as Dave started yelling out everything from Alan’s name to curses to pure unthinking blasphemy. In the back of his mind, he was glad he’d made them wait until Alan was more confident of sex with another man before attempting this, because this was fast becoming the best sex of his life, even better than the morning after Alan’s arrival.

Alan’s thrusts were picking up speed now, and Dave angled his hips as best as he could, losing his mind when he could feel Alan finally hammering against his prostate. Continuing to stroke Dave with one hand, Alan’s other hand was holding his hip tightly, his grip hard enough to leave bruises, and Dave got yet another thrill at the thought of Alan marking him in every way.

Raising his head, Alan’s face was entirely red. “Gonna--- fuck, Dave, gonna come,” he gasped out.

“Good,” Dave managed before pulling him down for another kiss, which was really no more than their open mouths brushing against each other with an occasional flick of their tongues. But when Alan’s hand did some clever twisting motion before he paused to let his thumb swirl around the head of Dave’s cock, Dave shouted as he arched up against Alan’s body, covering both their stomachs with warm spurts of come. Apparently it was too much for Alan to witness this, for he buried his face in Dave’s neck again at one big, final thrust, his voice so hoarse and broken that more come dribbled out of Dave’s cock just from the sound of it.

“Fuckin’ hell, Al.” Dave was panting, fighting to get his breath back. “You sure you never did this with another bloke before?”

Alan looked equally wrecked, his normally neat hair sticking out everywhere. He smacked Dave’s right hip. “If you’re trying to flatter me into round two, I’m going to need an hour,” he said breathlessly, listing to the side to flop onto the bed beside Dave.

“An hour? Amateur.” Dave’s husky laugh turned into yells as Alan tickled him mercilessly - but not for long. Dave was already starting to nod off, and he could see Alan hiding a yawn against his forearm. Dave couldn’t help feeling a little indecent, covered with sweat and come as he was, but at the same time it sent a thrill down his spine to have Alan in a similar state beside him.

Forcing himself out of bed and into the bathroom, Dave fetched a washcloth and dampened it. Heading back out, he walked over to Alan and gave him a smack on the bottom. “Turn over, princess.”

“Do whatever you want to me, just let me kip,” Alan groaned, dramatically flinging an arm over his eyes.

Chuckling, Dave cleaned him up as best as he could before doing the same for himself. Tossing the washcloth aside, Dave flopped back onto the bed, scooting closer as a half-asleep Alan raised an arm to drape over Dave.

He listened as Alan’s breathing slowed down to the steady rhythm of sleep, indulgently letting his nose snuffle against the inside of Alan’s elbow to breathe him in. But no one could blame Dave for being so self-indulgent. After all, Alan was leaving in two days, so Dave was determined to make the most of it before he’d have to let him go.  
  


***  
  


It rained on the morning of Alan’s flight. Dave had the doorman call for a luxury sedan to wait for them outside the building so they wouldn’t get wet. Since the divider between them and the driver was rolled up, Dave felt comfortable enough to hold onto Alan’s hand throughout the entire drive to JFK Airport. With the weekend traffic and the horrible weather, the journey took at least an hour and a half. Dave was selfishly glad for the teeny bit of extra time with Alan, who was quietly rubbing his thumb over Dave’s knuckles and not saying a word.

Once they got to the airport, Alan went to check in his bags while Dave smoked moodily outside the terminal. He’d already made up his mind to talk to Dr McConnell tomorrow about transferring to a recovery facility in England, and he’d added more lessons with Evelyn so that they wouldn’t have to stretch everything until December. He’d meant to fly over by then, so he could be with Jack and Alan again for the holidays. A large part of him missed Striped too, along with the quiet and comforting atmosphere of Alan’s house, all tucked away in the countryside. He wanted to return to his studio and paint again, he wanted the garden, he wanted the little swing on their porch.

Dave shook his head, smiling a little as he put out his cigarillo and went back inside. Alan was waiting for him by the British Airways counter, frowning down at his plane tickets. Although nothing had changed much about his demeanour, Dave thought he could sense that Alan seemed a little sadder, more tired. “Walk me in?” Alan made it sound like a very ordinary request, except that Dave knew how exceedingly private he was.

“Of course.” Their hands brushed together as Alan reached down for his cabin bag, but they didn’t say anything as they walked towards Alan’s gate. Dave stuck his hands in his pockets, his mood worsening as they passed through security checks.

There were a few fans waiting for a flight to Munich who stopped them for autographs, but otherwise Dave and Alan were pretty much left alone. At Alan's gate, many irate Brits were already waiting for the flight, so Dave nudged him to head towards a quieter section further down where they could talk until it was time for Alan to board.

“Call when you’re home,” Dave told him, aching to reach out and just touch Alan in some way, like straightening his collar or cupping his face. Instead he kept his hands firmly in his pockets.

“I’ll be a while.” Alan flashed him a small smile. “Need to stop by Flood’s and pick up Striped first.”

Dave couldn’t help smiling from ear to ear. “You think she remembers me?”

“Course she will.” Alan seemed amused too. “I bet once we get home, she ignores me and heads straight to your art studio to look for you.”

Dave’s smile faded. How he desperately wished he was getting on the plane with Alan, a deep longing welling within him for everything he’d left behind in Chichester. “I’ll come as soon as I can, mate. I promise.”

“Good.” Alan’s jaw flexed as he looked away from Dave. “Please do.”

There was the crackle of a mic, followed by an announcement: the boarding call for Alan’s flight. Dave’s heart sank as the passengers sitting near them began to get to their feet, shouldering their bags and calling out to family members. “You should go,” Dave said, ignoring the lump in his throat.

Alan just nodded, but he still made no move to head to the gate. By all rights, he would have gotten priority boarding as a business class passenger. But Alan remained where he was, his expression alternating between thoughtfulness and reluctance.

“Let me know how the lessons go with Evelyn,” Alan finally said. His eyes were dark as he regarded Dave. “And your treatment, too. Let me know if you need me for any paperwork in the UK.”

Dave couldn’t take it anymore. He reached out and grabbed Alan, pulling him into a tight hug that left him shaking all over, like the first time he’d turned up at Alan’s house a few months ago. “I love you, Charlie,” he whispered against the shell of Alan’s ear.

He felt Alan softly cupping the nape of his neck. “Love you too.” It was very, very soft, but there was no mistaking it.

Dave was probably holding on a little too long, but he just couldn’t bring himself to let go. He only forced himself to when the announcement for the final call sounded around the terminal, and he felt Alan taking a reluctant step back.

Alan gave him a wan smile. “I’ll see you soon.”

Dave didn’t trust himself to speak, so he just bobbed his head in agreement. He made himself watch as Alan walked towards the gate, handing the flight attendant his plane ticket. Alan gave him one last look over his shoulder and a nod before he disappeared into the bowels of the plane, and Dave didn’t leave until it had taken off, disappearing into the ashen grey skies as dark as his mood.


	13. It's Just a Question of Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No flashback this time, but something else instead. Note that the URL below is not real.
> 
> Also a massive thank you to the incredibly wonderful sapphican, who drew [this amazing artwork of Dave in his Dave Vanian Halloween costume](https://senorarelojes.tumblr.com/post/640681175065690112/thank-you-sapphican-and-home-update) from the last chapter. Thank you so much for this, I absolutely love it! ❤

**1997 - Chichester, UK**

The house was eerily silent and empty as Alan let himself in, dropping the keys onto a table nearby. Bending down, he set the cat carrier on the floor and opened the door, letting a restless Striped out as she bounded towards the kitchen immediately. Alan could see that she was still a bit skittish and that he’d have to leave her alone for a while until she became acclimated to her surroundings once more. After making sure she had enough food and water, Alan stepped out again to fetch the rest of his luggage from the car, along with a box of macaroons Flood had made with his kids and stuffed into his hands in parting.

Thunder rolled ominously across the dark sky, reminding Alan of the equally terrible weather he’d left behind in New York. He quickly parked the Mercedes inside the garage and ran back into the house before big fat raindrops started pelting down. He was miserable and exhausted; all he wanted now was to take a nice hot bath, eat something, crawl into bed and not think too much about everything else he left behind in NYC.

Glancing at his watch, he did a quick mental calculation: since it was almost midnight in Chichester, it would be 7pm in New York now. Unsure whether Dave might still be outside, Alan picked up the phone and dialled anyway. He’d promised to call once he’d reached home, and he had no intention of not keeping his word.

It seemed he’d worried for nothing, for Dave picked up immediately on the second ring as though he’d been waiting by the phone. “‘Lo?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Al!” Dave sounded so cheery and enthusiastic that Alan was glad he’d called. “Was wondering if you got home in one piece.”

“Traffic out of London was horrific,” Alan said, kicking off his shoes and sinking into his armchair. “But Flood gave me some macaroons, so it wasn’t all bad.”

“What? That’s unfair,” Dave said with a laugh. “You’d better share and share alike, mate.”

“By the time you get here, they’ll be disgusting,” Alan said, closing his eyes and tucking the phone against his shoulder. All he wanted to do was sit here and just listen to Dave talk. “Don’t worry, I’ll blackmail more out of him when you’re back.”

“Yeah, I can’t wait.” The longing in Dave’s voice - for macaroons or otherwise - was apparent. “How’s Striped?”

“Somewhere about.” Alan could hear the clink of her food bowl against the water dish in the kitchen. “Think she’s sulking because I came back without you.”

“All in due time.” Dave sounded both amused and sad. “I’ll be there to annoy her soon enough. And you too, of course.”

Despite his short holiday in New York, a part of Alan had admittedly looked forward to coming home to Chichester - to his new studio and his music library and his favourite armchair in front of the telly. But now that he actually _was_ here, he’d realised that his joy at being home felt somewhat hollow. He wanted Dave here with him, more than anything else. “Tell me about your day,” he said quietly. It sounded like a silly request, but it comforted him to think of Dave running his errands around New York, going to his NA meetings or maybe taking a stroll along the Hudson.

Dave talked about his latest lesson with Evelyn, as well as a quick trip to the supermarket to stock up. “But I didn’t buy that much food, only enough for two weeks,” Dave added, which cheered Alan up immensely. By then, Dave would hopefully be back in Chichester and buying up all the chocolate in the local Waitrose.

Alan stayed on the line for as long as he could, until Dave sternly told him to go to bed after his third consecutive yawn. “Go on then, you’ve got a long day tomorrow.” The fact that Dave sounded equally reluctant to hang up was at least a small consolation. “You’ve got to set up the guest rooms and all that.”

“Yeah, I know.” Alan let out a long sigh. That was one of the drawbacks of living out in the countryside; the artists who were going to work with him had to drive down to his studio in Chichester, and it only seemed polite to take care of their accommodation as well. “Wish me luck, mate.”

“Say hi to Douglas and Steve for me. And call me tomorrow, yeah?” Even over the phone, Alan could hear the smile in Dave’s voice. “Now off to bed with you, old man. You sound like you’re going to pass out.”

After a few more traded insults, Alan finally made himself hang up. He had things to do, like getting a shower or making himself something to eat. Yet he still remained sitting there in the darkness, holding onto the cordless phone like a complete bellend. After the noise and frenetic energy of NYC, things seemed a little too quiet now in Chichester without the wail of sirens going by, or Dave’s cheerful humming somewhere in the next room.

 _Fuck, I miss him_. Alan rubbed his face; he really hoped the next few weeks would quickly fly by.  
  


***  
  


Douglas was the very first guest to arrive. Alan was beyond pleased to see him again, and they had a whole week to catch up as they worked on recording Douglas’s vocals for ‘Incubus’ and ‘Stalker’. Alan had also hired Steve Lyon, whom he’d known since ‘Violator’, to help with production and engineering duties. Although the three of them worked long and grueling hours, they always spent their evenings laughing over several bottles of wine and reminiscing about the past, or just generally talking shop. Getting back into the grind of work helped Alan to forget how much he missed Dave, and Douglas and Steve were really good company.

Still, he called Dave every night just to check in with him. He was gratified to learn that Dave’s vocals were almost back on track - thanks to Evelyn - and that Dave was also starting to consider serious plans for his own solo record. Alan wondered if Dave would be open to using Alan’s home studio, or if there were musicians in New York that he specifically wanted to work with. He knew Dave had mentioned a bloke named Knox that he’d already talked to over the phone, so Alan had to quell his own selfish desires and let Dave make his own decision. If Dave wanted to record in New York, Alan wouldn’t get in his way.

After Douglas’s vocals were done, Alan had to say farewell to him and Steve as they headed back to London. This meant Alan had the house to himself for a few days, at least until Hildia’s arrival and Steve’s return. So Alan used the downtime to do some preliminary mixing as well as get the house ready for Dave’s longer stay this time. Alan spent an afternoon clearing his wardrobe so Dave would have enough space for all his clothes, then he set about restoring the art studio for Dave’s use. Striped kept him company this time, stretching out on the windowsill as she watched Alan set out Dave’s paints and brushes again, her eyes wide and curious.

“Yeah, I know how you feel, love.” Alan shot her an understanding little smile, scratching her head behind her little grey ears. “He’ll be back soon.”

In the evenings, Alan resumed his habit of sitting on the porch swing with a glass of wine in hand and watching the sunsets with Striped curled up on his lap. Then he would continue working on the album, punctuating the long hours with breaks where he’d play the drums or piano just for fun. These bursts of musical activity and creativity were a nice change from the past few years, which he’d spent recovering from the burn-out caused by the Devotional period. In the thick of it all, he hadn’t realised the mental and physical toll it had taken on him. How had they survived all that excess?

He found himself talking about it with Dave during their nightly phone calls. Dave seemed very determined to confront that dark period of his life with nothing but frank and brutal honesty, and Alan got a glimpse into some of the horrors Dave had put himself through. Like how he’d get robbed by drug dealers, but nonetheless returned to them just to score. “I don’t even know what I was thinking then,” Dave said softly, amidst the transatlantic crackle on the phone. “All I could think about was shooting up, y’know?”

Alan made a soft noise of understanding, just to show he was listening. His heart felt heavy with a sorrow that wasn’t his, listening to Dave talk so matter-of-factly about his mistakes and regrets. “But you don’t now.”

“I do, still. Sometimes.” Dave’s tone was riddled with self-contempt. “I just-- want other things more. That’s all.”

Alan smiled even though Dave couldn’t see it. It comforted him to know that Dave wanted him, wanted their life together more than anything else. “Like our sex dungeon?”

Dave’s laugh was long and hearty. “Exactly, you kinky fucker.”

“Excuse me, that’s _Sir_ Kinky Fucker to you, mate.”

“My apologies.” Dave sounded way more smug than apologetic. “And also, you just proved my point.”

“Yeah, I’m sure this is all my fault somehow.” Alan’s smile turned a little wistful. This temporary separation from Dave was a lot harder to handle than he’d initially imagined. Dave was a very tactile person, evident from the way he casually touched Alan all the time. It could be something innocent like a simple squeeze of the knee - something they used to do as friends, all the time - or a move much more calculated to drive Alan mad, like Dave softly kissing that spot just behind his ear. Alan hadn’t realised he would miss this physical aspect of their relationship this much, and the only thing he could do was to take care of it in the shower or in bed.

After all, there was nothing else he could do, right? Not when Dave was so far away, and wouldn’t be here for a while yet.

“Hey, Charlie?” Dave’s voice sounded a little husky, more intimate.

Alan sat up on the sofa, where he was ignoring some Father Ted rerun. His skin was prickling all over with awareness. “Yeah?”

“I--” There was a long pause here, followed by Dave’s huff of laughter. “Never mind, mate.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing.” Dave cleared his throat. “I really fuckin’ miss you, man.”

Alan let out a long sigh. All he had to do was hang on until Dave made it home to him. “Me too, Dave. More than you know.”  
  


***

**1997 - forum.dmdevotees.net**

> **Depeche Mode > Lounge > Band Talk > Misc**
> 
> **  
> Alan Spotted in NYC?**  
>  _**by JonLikener101 - posted Saturday 8 November 1997, 12.46pm** _
> 
> Hey my cousin who works at JFK says he definitly saw Dave and Alan there yday. Im pretty sure he might have gotten the wrong guys. I knwo Dave lives here but not Alan tho?? Anyone got any intel?
> 
> **Re: Alan Spotted in NYC?**  
>  _**by giveintosin - posted Saturday 8 November 1997, 12.55pm** _
> 
> What? Hahaha no come on, AW lives in London. Give me some of whatever your cousin is smoking.
> 
> **Re: Alan Spotted in NYC?**  
>  _**by JonLikener101 - posted Saturday 8 November 1997, 1.06pm** _
> 
> F**k I knew my cuz was full of s**t. OK folks back to your regular program!
> 
> **Re: Alan Spotted in NYC?**  
>  _**by MARTINETTE - posted Saturday 8 November 1997, 1.21pm** _
> 
> WAIT didnt u see the new thread someone just posted earlier????? DAVE AND ALAN WERE SEEN AT A NYC CLUB ON HELLOWEEN!!!
> 
> **Re: Alan Spotted in NYC?**  
>  _**by JonLikener101 - posted Saturday 8 November 1997, 1.39pm** _
> 
> Wait whut??? OK calling my cuz for more info.
> 
> **Re: Alan Spotted in NYC?**  
>  _**by giveintosin - posted Saturday 8 November 1997, 2.55pm** _
> 
> Well even if it really was AW and DG in New York, so what? They’re good mates, it makes sense that AW would visit his friend.
> 
> **Re: Alan Spotted in NYC?**  
>  _**by MARTINETTE - posted Saturday 8 November 1997, 3.01pm** _
> 
> DID U GUYS SEE THE HELLOWEEN PIX??? OMG THEY BOTH LOOK SO F**KIN GORGEUSSSS  
>    
>    
> 
> 
> **Re: Alan Spotted in NYC?**  
>  _**by _helga_ - posted Saturday 8 November 1997, 3.11pm** _
> 
> wait wait im confused, y wld alan visit dave? i thought alan wasnt talking to dave, he had to fax him when he left
> 
> **Re: Alan Spotted in NYC?**  
>  _**by SFarradays - posted Saturday 8 November 1997, 3.26pm** _
> 
> If anyone has more info or photos, please give u$ a shout at farradays@soundwaves.co.uk  
>    
>    
> 
> 
> **MODS - Re: Alan Spotted in NYC?**  
>  _**by JonLikener101 - posted Saturday 8 November 1997, 3.34pm** _
> 
> WTF I thoght the mods banned this acct, what gives?
> 
> **Re: MODS - Re: Alan Spotted in NYC?**  
>  _**by giveintosin - posted Saturday 8 November 1997, 4.01pm** _
> 
> Can we just delete this thread? It’s a DM forum not People magazine, for Christ's sake.  
>    
> 

***

**1997 - New York City, USA**

Dave was a man on a mission. Now that he had a very clear goal to work towards, he finally made the phone call to his realtor in LA and told her to sell his house. It felt good, closing the chapter in his life which featured a very dark period he never wanted to revisit. From therapy, he knew it was important not to bury the past or pretend it had never happened, because he needed to learn from it. But then again, he didn’t foresee any reason he would want or need to return to LA for the long term.

To his surprise, Dr McConnell expressed her support once she realised how serious Dave was about going back to England so he could be with Alan and Jack. Dave had dreaded breaking the news to her about Alan, certain that she’d frown at him and express her disapproval. But she had actually reacted rather blandly upon learning about their relationship, merely nodding while making a note in his file. Dave supposed she had been more worried about his mental health and stability if it’d been unrequited; since Alan was now proving to be the source of that stability and support, she hadn’t voiced any further objections aside from cautioning him to be careful. “But I’m glad you’re happy,” she’d told him with a rare little smile, and Dave had found himself beaming back at her.

After some research, the staff at Dave’s recovery centre eventually found a clinic in Southgate that they could work with to monitor his progress. The process was more complicated than it needed to be because of international legal issues with his prescriptions, but Dr McConnell had assured Dave that she and her team would take care of it. As for Big Mike, the process had been a lot more informal; Mike and his wife came over to Dave’s penthouse for dinner. Dave wasn’t quite the cook Alan was, so he’d ordered in Thai food from his favourite restaurant down the block. The three of them talked and laughed over steaming plates of green curry and _pad kra pao_ , and Dave found himself grateful for the noise and company. The flat had been far too empty and silent since Alan’s departure.

When Big Mike and Dave were out smoking on the balcony, he asked: “So when you comin’ back?”

Dave took a deep drag of his cigarillo. “Dunno, mate,” he said honestly.

“You movin’ into his place?”

Shrugging, Dave took in the view of the Hudson below him as he zipped up his jacket against the chill. “We said we were gonna try some time at Al’s house, then some time here.”

Mike stared out at the Statue of Liberty. “England makes more sense, y’know?” he said. “Since your kid is there and all.”

Dave ran a hand through his hair. “New York is the only place I’ve ever felt like home,” he admitted. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I really want to see Jack more, and I love Al’s house, it’s-- it’s fuckin’ perfect for both of us. But New York, man.” Dave spread out his hands here, as though he could encompass the breadth and width of his adopted home. “It saved me.”

“Yeah, I get it, man.” Mike stubbed out his cigarette against the sole of his shoe before tapping against his chest. “Brooklyn, born and raised. I ain’t ever going nowhere. But for you? It’s different.”

“How’s it different?”

Big Mike let out a sigh as he leaned against the balcony railing. “When you first came back-- I mean, without Alan? You were like a ghost, man. Like you ain’t here at all.”

Dave blinked, letting Mike’s words sink in.

“But after he got his ass over here, you lit up real quick.” Now Mike was chortling to himself like it was the world’s biggest joke. “The difference was like night and day, y’know what I’m saying?”

Staring down at his cigarillo, Dave took in a long, thoughtful breath. Mike was right: Alan’s arrival had eclipsed the utter misery Dave had been putting himself through when he’d first returned to Tribeca. He found himself thinking about his progress at the NA meetings, how they’d been so much easier to sit through because Alan had been waiting for him at home. “Y-yeah, I guess so,” Dave finally said, tapping off the ashes.

Mike clapped him heartily on the back. “You’ll figure it out,” he said wisely, before there was a tap on the window. Mike’s wife was gesturing for them to come back inside, pointing at her watch. Mike blew kisses at her before turning to Dave with a grin. “Married life, my man. When you find the right one, it’s awesome.”  
  


***  
  


The ringing phone startled Dave out of a restless sleep. He sat up in bed, groping blindly for the cordless phone while rubbing sleepily at his eyes. The clock showed that it was just past midnight. Dave wondered who it could be. It couldn’t be Alan, Jack or his mum calling from England, given the time.

Finally unearthing the phone under a pillow, Dave squinted at the caller-ID. He was surprised to see Alan’s number, given that Alan was always very fastidious about the timezone differences. Dave’s heart began to pound in his ears, hoping it wasn’t an emergency as he jabbed at the green ‘Answer’ button. “Charlie? Everything okay?”

There was an odd silence, followed by a short sigh. “You’re asleep.”

Dave frowned into the darkness. “Yeah, I was, but-- You all right? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” To Dave’s surprise, Alan sounded like he was trying not to laugh. “Sorry. My mistake.”

Now that it seemed like Alan wasn’t in immediate trouble or distress, Dave flopped back down onto the bed again, his heartrate slowly returning to normal. “Jesus, don’t fuckin’ scare me like that,” Dave grumbled. “Isn’t it like, five in the morning there?”

“Yeah, it is.” There were sounds of Alan slurping something, followed by ice clinking against glass. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“So you decided to call me and make sure I couldn’t sleep either,” Dave retorted, which made Alan laugh. “You bastard.”

“Why should I be the only one to suffer?” Alan sounded so reasonable here that Dave wished he could reach through the phone and strangle him with the cord. “You should suffer too.”

“English, mate,” Dave said with a yawn, punching his pillow before tucking it under his head. “You gotta speak English, you lost me there.”

Alan was silent again for a long time, so long that Dave thought the line had been disconnected. “Al, you still there?” Dave blinked, letting sleep cloud his senses again.

“What are you wearing?” Alan’s voice sounded low, husky.

Suddenly Dave felt alert and wide awake again. “What?”

“Tell me what you’re wearing.”

Then it suddenly hit Dave what was going on. He couldn’t help bursting into laughter, tucking the phone against his shoulder. “So when you said you were suffering, you meant-- like, in a _sexy_ way?”

More silence again, until Alan spoke, his voice heavy with resignation. “Never mind.”

“No, wait!” Dave tried to sound as contrite as possible. “Sorry, Charlie. When you called, I was scared that something had happened. And then it turned out to be this.” He cleared his throat here. “Trust me, I’m fuckin’ delighted. So, ask me again.”

Alan sounded hesitant here. And a little drunk, Dave belatedly realised. “Dave--”

“Fine, I’ll start.” Dave made himself comfortable in bed, taking in a deep breath. “Guess what I’m wearing, mate.”

Despite himself, Alan seemed intrigued. “What?”

“Your track bottoms,” Dave said slyly. “Remember that morning after you flew in? These are the ones you were wearing when I first touched you, yeah?”

Alan sounded like he was robbed of breath. “I came inside them.”

“Why do you think I’m wearing them?” Dave said, smiling when that elicited a soft moan from Alan’s end of the line.

“Love it when you wear my clothes,” Alan admitted, his breathing harsher now. “Because you look like you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, Al,” Dave whispered, hand sliding into his pants just to start touching himself. “God, I’ve been fuckin’ starved for you, y’know.”

“I want to put my mouth on you.” Alan’s voice was raspy with need. “I want to suck your cock, just like you taught me.”

“Fuck.” Dave hurriedly shed his track bottoms and palmed his erection, fully stroking himself now. All he could think about was the very first blowjob Alan had given him, how his eyes had lit up in surprise when Dave had come inside his mouth. “You’re a natural, y’know that?”

“Loved swallowing you down.” Alan’s low moan made Dave gasp loudly. “You tasted so good.”

Dave’s strokes sped up, his eyes squeezed shut as he rolled over, burying his face in Alan’s pillow. Alan’s scent flooded his senses and pushed Dave even further towards the edge, his rigid erection now pressed against the mattress. “I’ll come inside that beautiful mouth of yours,” Dave promised, rubbing his cock against the linen. “Then I’d kiss you. Taste us together, yeah? All filthy and wet--”

“Fuck, yes.” Alan’s voice was almost unrecognisable now, hoarse and loose with drink and pure plain lust. “Never had it so good with anyone else--”

That statement made Dave’s eyes sting, even as a shot of pre-come pulsed out of his cock and dampened the bedsheets. “Charlie, _please--_ ”

“Love it when you beg me,” Alan whispered, the slap-slap sound of skin against skin meant he was stroking himself too. “My cue to pin you down-- get my cock inside you.”

Dave was almost speechless with pleasure, spreading his legs as though Alan were physically doing it to him. “Do it. I need you inside me fuckin’ bad.”

“Are you touching yourself?” The hunger and greed was obvious in Alan’s voice. “Tell me you’re touching yourself.”

“Yeah,” Dave panted out, imagining the weight of Alan over him, littering wet kisses all over his shoulders. “Touching myself-- thinking it’s you.”

“That’s all I’ve done since I got home,” came Alan’s hoarse confession. “Wanked and thought about you.”

Dave was clutching the sheets with one hand, the other holding onto the phone for dear life as he kept rutting frantically against the mattress. “Fuck me, Al--”

“So tight for me.” Alan sounded increasingly out of breath, out of control. Dave loved that he was the only one who could make him this way. “Fuck, love you--”

Dave’s mouth dropped open as he came and came against the sheets, gasping Alan’s name into the mouthpiece. It only took a few more moments before he heard Alan’s cut off moan, which sent new shivers through him. Dave was still fighting to catch his breath, ignoring the quickly dampening spot under his crotch. He’d have to do a ton of laundry tomorrow.

“Al?” Dave murmured, rolling over onto the drier side of the bed and tugging the duvet over him. “You there?”

“Yeah.” Alan still sounded a little breathless, which made Dave feel quite smug. “Fuck, give me a minute.”

“Take all the time you need, mate.” Chuckling, Dave flung an arm over his eyes. He desperately wanted a smoke, but he couldn’t be arsed to roll out of bed and look for his cigarillo case in the living room. “That was bloody amazing.”

Alan hummed in agreement. “Think you’ve solved my problem about not sleeping.”

Dave laughed heartily. “Glad to be of service.”

To his surprise, Alan didn’t retort with another joke or quip. Instead, he sounded quite forlorn as he whispered, “This long distance thing is more difficult than I thought.”

Dave couldn’t help thinking over what Big Mike had said a few days ago, about how Dave had not really been ‘present’ before Alan had turned up in New York. “Just another week or so to go, yeah?” he assured Alan. “We’ve found the right clinic, and I’m almost done with Evelyn’s coaching. I’ll be there soon. I promise.”

Although they were several thousand kilometres, five hours and an ocean apart, Dave thought he could hear the smile in Alan’s voice, as impossible as it sounded. “I really hope so,” Alan said with a low sigh. “Good night, Dave.”

“Good night, Charlie.”


	14. I'm Yours to Keep

**1997 - London, UK**

Alan knew he had arrived far too early at the airport, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Heathrow on a weekday wasn’t too crowded anyway, so he whiled away the time browsing the shops for CDs, books and a few movies to take home and watch with Dave. By now he was familiar with Dave’s eclectic tastes in film, so Alan picked out a few he thought Dave might like, as well as a Twin Peaks box set that Alan got for himself. After making his purchases, he went to check the flight information boards for the umpteenth time. His spirits finally lifted when he saw Dave’s flight from LaGuardia would be landing soon.

It gave Alan enough time to order an extra-strong, piping hot coffee in a takeaway cup, which he carried carefully to the arrival hall. With the weather being so cold and gray, Alan thought Dave might appreciate a hot jolt of caffeine after a long, miserable plane ride. There were many other people already waiting at the gate, holding balloons and stuffed bears while keeping a lookout for their family members or friends. Alan stood on his own, sharing a smile of commiseration with a young bloke nearby who was waiting anxiously with a comically large bouquet of flowers.

It seemed like ages before people finally started streaming out into the arrival hall, some of them talking loudly in broad American accents. A few businessmen hurried past Alan, walking up to uniformed drivers holding up their names. Alan wished he’d thought of that - holding up a sign with one of Dave’s more ridiculous past pseudonyms that he’d used over the years in hotels. Still, it didn’t matter; Alan was far more eager to finally see Dave again. He set down the coffee on a nearby ledge, waiting patiently as more people flooded out.

There was a loud, joyful shriek as a blonde woman ran out into the hall and jumped straight into the happy arms of the bloke with the flowers, the two of them smothering each other with kisses. Smiling at them, Alan himself almost missed Dave’s dark head bobbing behind a large family. Craning his neck to get a better look, Alan’s smile blossomed into a wide grin when he finally spotted Dave emerging from behind the family, striding out into the arrival hall with far more luggage in tow than the first time he’d showed up at Chichester. Dave seemed to be scanning the crowd for him too; when he finally met Alan’s gaze, his own grin lit up his entire face.

Alan was itching to drop everything and just...get his hands on Dave somehow, but he was hyper-aware of the people milling around them. They were very much in public, after all. Judging from the painful longing on Dave’s face as he hurried towards Alan, Dave was probably holding himself back too.

“Welcome back.” It was the safest thing Alan could say in public, but the _I-miss-you_ must have been very apparent in his tone because Dave immediately dropped his bags without a thought and grabbed Alan in an extremely tight hug. Alan shut his eyes as he held Dave close, drinking in his scent, his warmth, the familiar heft of his body in Alan’s arms.

“Missed you, silly bastard.” Dave’s voice was hoarse with emotion as he drew back, unable to resist planting a kiss on Alan’s cheek. Alan hoped anyone watching them would just assume it was a platonic sign of affection, one Dave used to give him all the time in the eighties.

Forcing himself to drag his eyes off Dave, Alan retrieved the cup of coffee and handed it to him. “Here, thought you might want some coffee,” he said, as Dave beamed at him in appreciation.

“You’re a saint, Al.” Dave opened the lid and blew on the hot liquid a bit before taking a few sips. He let out a grateful sigh. “Fuck, I needed that.”

Alan started helping Dave with his bags and loading them onto the luggage cart as Dave downed the rest of his drink, his eyes on Alan the whole time. “I’m parked in the basement,” Alan told him, pretending not to notice the way Dave’s gaze was riveted to his arse. “Anything you want to pick up from the shops before we leave?”

“Nah, I’m good.” Finishing the coffee, Dave licked his lips before tossing the cup into a nearby bin. “Can’t wait to get home, y’know?”

Alan couldn’t help smiling again. The fact that Dave thought of Chichester as 'home' warmed him in a way he couldn’t quite put into words, like he was lit up from within. “Yeah, I do.”  
  


***  
  


During their walk through the airport and to the basement carpark, Alan was more than aware of Dave’s eyes constantly on him - hungry and intent, almost wolfish. Alan was a little too practical to return his longing gaze, although he could well understand Dave’s inclinations. They hadn’t seen each other for three weeks, almost a month. Alan was very much looking forward to getting Dave somewhere private behind closed doors, preferably with a bed.

Having anticipated more luggage this time around, Alan had driven the far roomier Lexus to Heathrow instead of his beloved Mercedes. He led Dave to where it was parked in the corner of the gigantic basement, unlocking the doors as Dave complained about his flight and how Mike had insisted that Dave somehow bring his wife’s famous fried chicken all the way to London for Alan. “I didn’t, by the way,” Dave said, when Alan raised a hopeful eyebrow at him. “Didn’t want the plane smelling like a KFC because of me. So don’t give me those puppy-dog eyes, Wilder.”

Alan pretended to sigh wearily. “I suppose I’ll have to make do with just you, then,” he said, as Dave laughed.

“Can’t believe I flew all the way here for such ill treatment.” Dave was chortling as he started loading his bags into the boot of Alan’s car.

“Not my fault you’re a masochist, you know.” Alan grinned at him as Dave flipped him the bird before going to get the last of his bags.

Slipping into the driver’s seat, Alan started the engine first, turning the station to Radio 5 and adjusting the air-conditioning. When he heard the slam of the car boot door, he glanced at the rear-view mirror. Dave seemed to be looking around cautiously; Alan wondered what was wrong.

To his surprise, Dave walked to Alan’s door and opened it instead of the passenger’s. Thinking that Dave was too used to American cars, Alan was about to make a joke to remind him when Dave climbed in, nimbly straddling Alan on the driver’s seat. “Dave, what--”

Dave gripped Alan’s hair to hold him in place as he attacked Alan’s mouth in a brutal, desperate kiss that Alan instinctively responded to, his body recognising Dave before his brain could catch up. Alan groaned into Dave’s mouth, clutching his shirt to yank him closer while the other immediately went to grab Dave’s bum. In response, Dave gave a dirty chuckle before sucking on the tip of Alan’s tongue, and Alan could feel Dave’s hand sliding down his belly to cup him between his legs, making Alan moan.

Logically speaking, Alan knew it wasn’t the most comfortable or safe place to be doing this. The driver’s seat was too cramped for two men, the gear stick was digging into his leg, and there was a major chance someone could come along and get an eyeful of them. But Alan found himself weak for Dave’s touch after being deprived for so long. Their phone sex sessions had helped to stave off some of the hunger, but now all Alan could think about was flinging Dave into the backseat and sucking him off until he flooded Alan’s mouth.

Then they heard it: the faraway screeching of children, slowly coming closer. Dave stiffened in his arms. “Fuck,” he murmured against Alan’s lips. “I should get off, yeah?”

“Looks like neither of us are ‘getting off’ until we get home,” Alan said a little too bitterly, although it made Dave laugh and plant one last fond kiss on his lips. Alan’s arms immediately felt too empty as Dave tumbled over into the passenger’s seat, his cheeks flushed and his hair mussed. His lips looked reddened and moist, and he kept licking at them in a way that tempted Alan to just lean over and resume their kiss.

Taking a few deep breaths to calm himself - and avoid temptation - Alan started the ignition with shaky hands. As expected, the family they had heard earlier were now walking in front of them, heading towards their own car. “Fuckers,” Dave muttered, staring darkly at them.

“Dave!” Although Alan meant to sound chiding, he couldn’t keep the laughter out of his voice. “They’re kids!”

“Just the mum and dad, then.” Dave dropped him a cheeky wink as he latched his seatbelt, before adjusting himself in his jeans. “Now, the quicker we get home, the quicker you can fuck me through the mattress.”

Alan waited until they had exited the carpark and paid the parking fees before he dropped his bombshell. “We’re not going straight home, unfortunately.”

Dave’s jaw dropped, gawking at Alan in outrage. “What?

“Calm down, mate. I need to drop by Flood’s place first to hand him some rough mixes of the new tracks we recorded,” Alan explained. “Also, I got him a gift to thank him for taking care of Striped, you know.”

“Oh yeah.” Instead, Dave looked guilty now. “Fuck, I should have gotten him something too.”

Alan waved him away. “I got him a pinot noir. I’ll just say it’s from both of us.”

Dave fell silent after that. Alan was beginning to wonder if he’d said something wrong when Dave reached over and rubbed Alan’s thigh, letting his hand rest there. There was something immensely comforting about having Dave touch him like this, even though there was nothing sexual or titillating about it. Stealing a glance at Dave’s face to make sure everything was all right, Alan was relatively reassured to see Dave’s expression was thoughtful, not moody or upset.

Thanks to traffic, it took quite some time before they reached Flood’s home in Maida Vale. Flood’s face lit up when he spotted Dave climbing out of Alan’s car, the two of them hugging for a long time. Alan could see the quiet amazement in Flood’s expression as he silently took in all the details of this new and fresh version of Dave: healthy, happy, enjoying his new lease of life. Dave told him briefly about New York, rehab and the band breaking up.

“Sorry to be blunt, but I couldn’t say I was surprised when I heard about the split,” Flood said, as Dave nodded understandingly. “I mean, you knew how bad it was during the last album--”

“Yeah mate, don’t worry,” Dave said, patting his back heartily before his expression grew more sombre. “And, y’know, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry you had to go through all--” he gestured ineffectually, unable to encompass everything he meant. “Ah, you know what I mean. All that shit, y’know?”

Flood smiled compassionately at him. “All water under the bridge, yeah? And you’re doing much better now.”

“I had a lot of help.” Dave’s gaze landed on Alan here, his smile softening. Flood’s eyes flitted meaningfully between the two of them, but he didn’t say anything.

After Alan handed Flood the rough mixes and the wine he’d brought as a thank-you gift, Flood sent them away with an even bigger box of macaroons this time, leaving Dave euphoric with childlike glee. “Told you he likes me best,” Dave said in the car, waggling his eyebrows as Alan rolled his eyes.

On the drive home to Chichester, Dave gave him some updates about his treatment and therapy while Alan filled him in on the progress with the new album. These were things they’d already discussed during their nightly phone calls, but Alan simply enjoyed watching the way Dave talked with his hands, gesturing to emphasise a point or articulate how he was feeling. Alan knew he tended to do the same thing to a lesser extent, and he couldn’t help wondering if it was something he’d picked up from Dave over the years.

At some point when they were on the motorway, Dave couldn’t stop yawning so Alan told him to take a nap. Eventually Dave dozed off with his head against the window, his hand still resting on Alan’s lap.

It was just past dinner time when they finally reached the house. Alan was tired and starving, but as he glanced over at the sleeping Dave, his heart was full. He shook Dave’s shoulder gently. “We’re home.”

Dave’s eyes slowly fluttered open, but he sat up once he realised they were in Alan’s driveway. There was no way he could hide the pleasure suffusing his face. “Fuckin’ finally,” he exclaimed, hopping out of the car so he could stand in the driveway and take in the house. Shaking his head with a smile, Alan went to park the car in the garage and popped open the boot once he killed the engine.

Dave came to help him with the bags, while Alan carried in the macaroons and all the shopping he’d done in Heathrow. Once the door was closed behind them, Alan was completely caught off guard when Dave suddenly dropped everything and grabbed Alan’s shirt, slamming him up against the wall and frantically kissing the life out of him. Quickly getting with the programme, Alan started kissing back just as desperately, his always-simmering hunger for Dave suddenly exploding to life as they groped and pawed at each other.

“C’mon Al, need you.” Dave was clumsily trying to undo Alan’s belt, which was quite a feat considering they were both flushed and panting.

“Quick first, slow later?” Alan said breathlessly. He was glad that Dave seemed to understand what he meant, nodding impatiently as he stopped fiddling with Alan’s belt and zipper. They were both too keyed up and desperate now for finesse; something rough, dirty and urgent would do the trick.

Thinking back to his first morning in Dave’s flat, Alan had an idea. He gripped Dave’s hips, which had the added effect of Dave gasping against Alan’s open mouth, their kisses sloppy and misaimed. He backed Dave up against the table where Alan kept the mail and the bowl he dropped his keys in, and Dave happily went where he was told, grunting when his arse bumped against the table.

“Up,” Alan directed, tightening his grip on Dave’s thighs and hefting him upwards. Laughing when he realised what Alan was up to, Dave let himself be maneuvered onto the table so that he was sitting on it. His eyes were dark with hunger as he spread his legs invitingly, tugging Alan forward to stand in-between them.

“Oh my God.” Alan’s jaw dropped as Dave’s lean legs wrapped around his hips, trapping Alan right where he wanted him. This left Alan in the best position to grind his erection against Dave’s, the two of them dry-humping like teenagers as they kissed and kissed, letting out all the sexual frustration and deprivation of the last few weeks and just rutting against each other mindlessly.

The table was shaking now with every one of Alan’s thrusts, the keys rattling in their bowl and the mail falling off the table as Alan ground his hips against Dave’s, the two of them losing their minds in a frenzy of heat. The way Dave’s legs tightened around him made Alan shake and moan, one hand tangled in Dave’s hair while the other held onto the table for balance. Dave was far more blatant, both his hands shoved down the back of Alan’s trousers and clinging onto his arse with a possessive iron grip. “Yours,” Alan whispered into their kiss, and this made Dave moan even louder. “I’m yours--”

“Fuck--” Dave cursed, before his eyes rolled back and he stilled in Alan’s arms, his thrusts now weakening. Alan did a quick check, letting go of Dave’s hair as his hand slipped into Dave’s jeans, smiling when he found Dave’s briefs wet and sticky.

He couldn’t resist bringing his fingers to his mouth for a taste, holding Dave’s half-open gaze as he licked them clean. Fuck, he didn’t think he could get addicted to another man’s come like this. “Al, you sexy fucker,” Dave growled before he yanked Alan closer for a kiss, his body going lax under Alan’s to give him more room to thrust. Alan barely lasted a few more moments before he came with a loud groan, Dave massaging his groin encouragingly.

After taking a long while to collect themselves, they traded a few kisses before Alan reluctantly peeled himself off Dave, who winced as he got off the table. “Fuck, I need to keep up with my yoga if we’re doing that again,” he pretended to complain.

Alan arched an eyebrow at him. “Next time we’ll aim for the bed.”

Dave’s grin was dazzling. “Agreed.” They kissed again, until Dave suddenly pulled away and bent down. Alan’s concern faded once he realised Dave was cooing over Striped, who was now twining around his legs. “Hello, little girl! I missed you so much.”

Leaving Dave and Striped to reconnect, Alan couldn’t stop smiling to himself as he headed upstairs to shower and change first. They had plenty of time to get settled in later. For now, he was just glad that Dave was finally home.

***

**1984 - West Berlin, Germany**

“I feel really stupid,” a red-faced Fletch muttered, shooting furtive glances at Alan’s video-camera.

“Just give it a go,” Martin said encouragingly. “Besides, we’ve already sampled almost everything else here. So we’re just left with the scissors.”

Dave reflexively glanced around the tiny Hansa kitchen, which seemed like it had been picked up by a giant and shaken upside down until it had spilled all its contents. On every surface lay spoons, forks, butter knives and various other utensils, all of which had been used to strike different surfaces. The ensuing sounds, of course, had been diligently recorded for sampling.

It was something that had been really key to their success for Construction Time Again, so Dan Miller had shooed them out of the studio and told them to go find more sounds. Privately, Dave thought Dan was sick of the lot of them so this was an excellent excuse. They’d been hunkered down at Hansa for two weeks already, and it looked like they were starting to get on Dan’s nerves. But honestly, Dave didn’t mind being out of the studio. It got claustrophobic in there after a while, so any reason to head outside and muck about was fine by him. Besides, the studio was really more Alan’s and Martin’s territory.

“Go on, mate,” Alan chided Fletch from behind the camera. “The sooner we finish this, the sooner we can stretch our legs downstairs.”

“You do it then.” Still, Fletch’s grumbling was more half-hearted than anything else. He held up the pair of scissors closer to the mic, frowning in concentration as he snipped the air experimentally.

Martin checked the levels on the audio recorder, shaking his head. “Nope, louder.”

“Once more with feeling, Andrew,” Dave called out as the rest snickered. “Put your back into it.”

The way Fletch glowered at him made it obvious that he would much prefer to stab Dave with the scissors instead. “Shut it, Gahan.”

Silence reigned for a moment as Fletch maneuvered the scissors with more force this time, producing two sharp snips. Judging from the pleased smile on Martin’s face, Dave gathered it was successful. “How was it?” Alan asked Martin, turning the camera to him.

Martin flashed the camera a thumbs-up. “Very good, very clear. No distortion at all.”

“All hail Andrew Fletcher,” Alan said solemnly. “Maestro of kitchen utensils.”

“Fuck off.” Fletch rolled his eyes, shoving the utensils back into the drawers. “I’m sure Dan wouldn’t blink an eye if I clobbered you lot with a spatula.”

“Oooh, I’m vewwy scared.” Dave’s impromptu Elmer-Fudd impression made Martin burst out laughing, while Fletch just kept skewering him with a deadly glare. Alan was just recording everything, grinning widely behind the camera.

To probably keep the peace, Martin suggested that they split into different groups and go off to collect sounds, which everyone was agreeable to. Martin and Fletch left first in the direction of Kreuzberg, while Alan packed up his video camera and Dave shouldered on his jacket. After a quick discussion, they decided to make their way towards the vicinity of the Brandenburg gate. There were many areas nearby under construction there, so Alan suggested that it might be a good place to get sounds.

It was now almost twilight, and Dave was in a great mood. He liked getting to spend time alone with Alan. These days, Alan was a lot more involved in the production and mixing of the album, and Gareth and Dan were happy to teach him whatever they could. So it meant Dave was often bored in the studio, feeling either left out or useless. It didn’t seem to bother Fletch, who enjoyed camping out on the sofa with magazines or a book. But Dave wanted to have a say in the creative process. So he much preferred it when they went out to collect sounds for sampling, like now. Having a monopoly on Alan’s time and attention was an added bonus.

"You really think we'll end up using everything?" Dave asked curiously. "Including Andy's, erm, scissor thing?" He mimicked the snipping action.

Alan shrugged. "Dunno, really. Thought it might fit in Blasphemous Rumours, sort of."

“Oh?” Dave nudged him. “Like where?”

“Like somewhere in the third verse, you know?” Alan explained it a little more in detail, Dave listening raptly. Alan never talked down to him, and treated him as an equal despite the fact that Alan probably knew more about music, producing and engineering than the other three of them combined.

They found an unguarded construction site, so Dave took out his trusty metal rod from his bag while Alan unearthed the portable recording machine. Striking experimentally at a few different objects, Dave quite liked the sound they got from a sawn-off pipe, as well as a metal lattice that was propped up against a pile of bricks.

Once they’d gotten a whole plethora of sounds on tape, Alan suggested that they take a leisurely walk back to the studio instead of a cab, so Dave agreed. The weather that night was really quite lovely, and they were talking about nothing and everything, the conservation flowing as naturally as breathing. Dave realised that he really liked being with Alan because he could completely be himself: no bullshit, no pretences. Dave never liked to pull his punches, and he knew it sometimes rubbed Martin and Fletch the wrong way, like in the kitchen earlier. But with Alan, he not only seemed fine with Dave’s forthrightness; he seemed to appreciate it, relish in it.

They were the first to get back to the studio. Dan and the audio assistants had left to get dinner, while Gareth was napping on the sofa. “I’ll go program the sounds in,” Alan said, as Dave took off his jacket.

“Can I see how you do it?” Dave asked, not quite willing to let go of Alan’s focus and attentiveness yet.

Alan smiled at him, and Dave felt something in his stomach flip. _Oh no_ , he thought, his throat growing dry. “Sure, come on,” Alan said, gesturing for Dave to join him at the Synclavier.

Dave ignored the sudden funny feeling in his chest, chalking it up to mere exhaustion and claustrophobia after being in the studio for so many days on end. “Yeah Al, I’m comin’.”

***  
  


**1997 - Chichester, UK**

Ever since Dave had returned home, he and Alan rarely left the bed. They didn’t even bother changing the sheets the first two days, just fucking each other’s brains out until they could barely move. Dave especially loved it when Alan drew it out, fucking him long and slow as Dave clawed at the sheets and the headboard, the two of them slick with sweat and come and lube.

Dave knew he should be slightly concerned that he couldn’t get enough of Alan’s cock inside him, pounding him through the mattress until he was begging for release. But then again, Dave didn’t much care. He’d gone almost a month without having Alan in his arms, and he meant to make up for it. Besides, it seemed Alan was cheerfully suffering from the same affliction, judging from how he couldn’t keep his hands off Dave either.

Even in his sleep, Dave constantly had dreams of Alan touching him, driving him crazy with the merest brush of fingers. One particularly memorable dream even segued into delicious reality one night when Dave stirred awake to find Alan spooning him from behind, his stiff erection already pressed up against Dave’s backside. Alan was pressing kisses against his shoulder blades, his hand already on Dave’s cock and stroking him firmly. “Fuck, Al--” Dave whispered, mouth dropping open in pleasure.

“Sorry,” Alan murmured against his ear. “Saw you were hard-- couldn’t help myself.”

“Don’t apologise,” Dave hissed, scooting backward so he could grind his arse against Alan’s erection, making him groan. “Keep going.”

“You like it, don’t you?” Alan’s tone had turned smug now that he knew Dave was fully on board. “Like my hand on your cock, yeah?”

Alan’s strokes were starting to pick up now, in that slow, teasing way that meant he wanted to watch Dave unravel before his eyes. “Fuckin’ love it,” Dave panted, arching his neck so Alan could have better access. “Fuckin’ love _you_.”

“Want you so much.” The sincerity in Alan’s breathless voice made something in Dave’s chest tighten. “Can’t stop fucking touching you.”

Dave just kept grinding back against Alan, losing himself completely. “Get the lube,” he demanded. Alan pressed one last kiss to his shoulder before rolling away, leaving Dave to mourn the temporary loss of heat and friction.

But Alan was back in a quick moment, giving Dave a few deep sucking kisses on the neck that had him moaning obscenely, his eyes rolling up in pleasure. Once he heard the familiar ‘click’ of Alan uncapping the lube, he stopped Alan with a hand on his hip. “Wait.”

“What’s wrong?” Alan sounded out of breath, but still concerned for Dave’s well-being. “Are you, um, sore?”

Dave laughed. “No, it’s not that. I just thought-- we could try something different.”

“Oh?” Although Dave still couldn’t see Alan’s face from this angle, Alan’s tone was piqued with curiosity. Good old Alan was always a champion for experimentation. “Try what?”

“Here.” Taking the lube from a confused Alan, Dave spread open his legs and began slicking his inner thighs with lube. Once Alan understood what he was trying to do, his frown cleared.

“Oh, I heard about this.” Dave could sense the smile in Alan’s voice. “Oxford-style, I believe they call it.”

“I don’t care what they call it.” Tossing aside the lube, Dave settled onto his side once more. “Now get behind me and start moving.”

“Bossy,” Alan chided him with a laugh, before doing as Dave demanded. But Dave knew they were on the right track once he could feel the hard, stiff heat of Alan’s cock between his thighs, as well as Alan’s shaky breath against his shoulder. “Oh fuck, this is….”

It wasn’t often that Alan was at a loss for words, and Dave felt oddly proud of that. “Move,” he reminded him, and Alan began to thrust, one hand reaching forward to stroke Dave’s own dripping erection. Everything felt so slick and wet and hot, and Dave had never felt more dirty and delightfully used, melting in Alan’s arms and moaning his name.

Alan’s mouth latched onto the crook of Dave’s neck, stroking him in time with his thrusts, the two of them spiralling further and further into ecstasy. Although this was entirely different from Alan fucking him, Dave couldn’t get enough of how _different_ it felt, Alan’s powerful thrusts rocking him from head to toe, Alan’s thighs slapping against his, the obscene sounds mixed with Alan’s muffled moans against Dave’s neck. He could feel Alan starting to speed up, a sure telltale sign that he was about to come. Dave clamped his thighs together even more tightly, to create a snug channel for Alan.

“Oh fuck, Charlie, so good, fuck--” Dave wasn’t even aware what he was babbling as Alan’s strokes became erratic and fumbled, a clear sign of how much Alan was losing control. When Alan bit down gently on his neck, Dave choked before he came in warm spurts across Alan’s fingers and his own belly, hot and sweaty and gasping in Alan’s grip. Alan lasted a few more thrusts before he groaned against Dave’s neck, and Dave grinned in triumph when he felt a sudden burst of warmth between his thighs, letting Alan ride out his orgasm.

“Fuck.” Alan was panting. Dave finally turned and faced him properly, laughing at how wild-eyed he looked, his hair sticking out in tufts. Not that Dave looked any better, all panting and come-spattered. “Why didn’t you suggest that before?” Alan asked him.

Dave gaped at him indignantly. “Excuse me for being too distracted to tutor you on every aspect of gay sex,” he muttered, as Alan chuckled and leaned in to kiss his nose apologetically. “This is all your fuckin’ fault, y’know.”

“Mmmm,” Alan hummed agreeably, draping an arm around Dave and staring at him. His eyes were so warm and full of affection that Dave forgot he was pretending to be offended. “I just had three bloody fantastic orgasms the whole of tonight, so I’m liable to agree with anything you say.”

Dave perked up in interest. “I’m better at figuring out your dishwasher than you are.”

“No arguments there.” Alan was starting to yawn, blinking sleepily at Dave.

Trying to think of more ways he could push the envelope, Dave grinned cheekily at Alan. “The Stones are better than the Beatles.”

A half-asleep Alan waved dismissively at him. “I’m knackered, so I’ll let you have this one.”

Dave decided to drive the final nail in the coffin. “I was right about ‘It’s Called a Heart’ being a better single than ‘Fly on the Windscreen'.”

Now Alan’s eyes were wide open again. "Now you’ve crossed the line, mate.”

Laughing, Dave scooted closer to Alan, so that they were sharing the same pillow. “Good night, Charlie.”

Alan’s smile softened as his clean hand sifted through Dave’s hair, brushing it back. “Good night.”  
  


***  
  


Once the two of them had gotten over the initial frenzy of desperate reunion sex, Dave was finally able to settle in properly at Chichester and get his bearings again. It felt a little odd to see his old bedroom turned back into a nondescript guest room, but of course Dave would much rather sleep in Alan’s bed instead of his old one. After all, he wasn’t a mere guest anymore.

He was even more delighted to find that Alan had completely restored his art studio, putting out all the brushes and paints that Dave had cleaned up and tidied away before he had left for New York. Although it was now almost winter, the studio was still flooded with light in the mornings and early afternoons since they were so far south. Alan had bought him more canvases too, so Dave found himself starting over on all the pieces he had abandoned in New York because his own studio hadn’t felt ‘right’. Striped assumed her position at the windowsill, her paws curled up under her as she contentedly watched Dave paint for hours.

It was so easy to fall back into their domestic routine before Dave’s initial departure. Dave did miss New York from time to time, but it was more of an afterthought, like when they’d run out of milk and Dave automatically wanted to run downstairs to the bodega before he realised they’d have to drive into town for the nearest store instead. It also bothered Dave that once shops and restaurants and bars closed for the night, they _remained_ closed until the next morning. Dave had been too used to the 24/7 convenience of living in big cities like NYC and LA, even London.

Still, those were tiny trade-offs for everything else he got in return. Life in the countryside was quiet, peaceful. Dave loved his art studio, loved his garden, loved Striped and the house and how hard Alan had tried to make Dave feel welcome here. For example, Alan had placed ashtrays around the house, so Dave could smoke near the windows wherever he wanted. The pantry was also stocked with Perrier and chocolate, as well as an incredible range of spices so Alan could whip up Asian food for Dave if he was missing it. Dave sometimes had to pinch himself a few times, unable to believe how wonderful his life was now.

He was thinking about this one day when they were in the attic, hunting for Alan’s old Christmas decorations. The holidays were coming up, and Alan was looking for a few heirlooms his mother had passed to him. “Will you come back with me?” Dave suddenly asked, watching as Alan rooted around in a box.

Alan frowned down at its contents. “Back to where?” he asked, distracted.

“Back to the North Pole,” Dave said sarcastically, as Alan rolled his eyes. “You know where I bloody meant. Back to Bas, obviously.”

That got Alan’s full attention. “You mean-- for Christmas?”

“Yeah.” Dave nodded enthusiastically. “Y’know, with me and Jack. And my family.”

Alan straightened up, moving the box aside with his foot. “They’d be fine with that?”

Dave scoffed. “You know they all love you. Probably more than me, the traitors.”

“Then Jack--” Alan gave him a careful, considering look. “I’d be there as your friend, right? Uncle Alan?”

Dave shook his head firmly. “No, I want to tell him.”

Alan’s eyebrows shot upwards. “Dave-- you can’t, he’s too young!”

“He’s old enough, he’s ten now,” Dave said sharply. “I’m done keeping secrets, Charlie.”

Alan’s mouth was pursed, which Dave knew meant that he was in complete disagreement about something. “I understand that,” Alan said, fiddling with the edges of a box. “But-- this is my secret too.”

“I know, Al, I know.” Dave walked over to him, sliding his arms around an unhappy Alan’s waist. “I’m not saying we have to, y’know, come out to the whole world, or whatever. I just-- I want my son to know. And my mum. They should know about something so important to me, y’know?”

Alan’s eyes fluttered shut as he leaned his forehead against Dave’s, the two of them standing together in thoughtful silence. “Let me think about it,” Alan finally said, which Dave knew was a big concession for him. Usually, whenever Alan made up his mind, there was no changing it, not for love or money. Dave knew what it meant that Alan was at least willing to consider such a big move.

“Thank you.” Dave gave him a chaste kiss before soundly smacking Alan on the bum, making him yelp. “Now come on, I’m done watching you bend over things the entire afternoon. Let’s get in that nice big shower of yours.”  
  


***  
  


Of all the changes in the house, Dave’s favourite was the home recording studio. It’d been about 85% completed after Dave’s first departure, but now he couldn’t stop marvelling over the finished project. It was sleek, professional and wholly equipped with all sorts of equipment and major instruments that one might need to record an album. But there were little touches here and there that spoke of Alan’s personality, like the Turkish rug he’d bought from Istanbul a few years ago, or the QPR mousepad for his work computer. Dave couldn’t stop beaming when he saw that his painting of Striped was still in its place of pride, and Alan had also tacked up the painting Dave had done of the house before hiding it away. It made him feel like he had a little ownership in the studio too, like Alan wanted Dave represented in such an important space to him.

After his daily run and some yoga, Dave noticed Alan had still not emerged from the basement for lunch yet so he took the initiative to make them some sandwiches. He brought everything down to the studio, shouldering open the heavy main door since the red ‘Recording’ light wasn’t on. 

He found Alan sitting at one of his many synths, frowning down at the keys as he adjusted his headphones. Alan’s frown cleared when he spotted Dave, his smile transforming his entire face. “Is it lunchtime already?” he asked, taking off the headphones.

“Yes, you workaholic tosser.” Setting down the plates and bottles of Perrier, Dave bent down to give him a kiss before pulling up an office chair and taking a seat. “Now, tell me about what you’re doing.”

More than happy to talk shop anytime, Alan started describing the track he was working on, his hands gesticulating about in enthusiasm. Dave loved seeing Alan like this, so involved in his work and so passionate about what he was doing. It didn’t help that Alan was wearing a large wooly grey jumper that made him look like he’d be nice and extra soft to snuggle against. Pushing the thought away, Dave tried not to smile as he listened to the soft cadence of Alan’s voice, as comforting as the jumper he was wearing.

After they’d finished their lunches, Alan played for Dave some of the new tracks he’d already started working on. Dave listened closely, commenting on Douglas’s vocals for some of them, and Hildia’s on another. Whatever Alan already had on hand was very interesting. Admittedly it made Dave itch to return to the studio, now that Evelyn had helped him to restore his voice. It had also restored a lot of his own confidence, and he found himself thinking about whether Alan would want to be part of his very first solo project. 

“What do you think?” he heard Alan asking him. Alan was smiling at him in a way that meant he had something up his sleeve.

“You mean, your album?” Dave said. “It’s early days yet, but--”

“No, not that.” Alan reached over for Dave’s hand, playing gently with his rings. “I meant _you_. Want to get back on the horse?”

Dave’s surprise must have been obvious, for there was a light flush dusting Alan’s cheeks. “You don’t have to work with _me_ ," Alan added, "but you should use the studio.”

“No, I mean.” Dave grinned as he climbed over, straddling Alan in his office chair. Yes, the grey jumper really felt as fuzzy and comfortable as it looked. “Yeah, I do want to work with you, y’know?”

“Mmm.” Alan reached up, their mouths nuzzling together as they kissed slowly. Dave couldn’t resist tugging on the loose collar of the grey jumper, although he stopped when he spotted a flash of blue polka-dot fabric.

“Wait, is that my--” Dave laughed as he tugged on one of Alan’s inner layers. “Is this my shirt?”

Alan looked caught, his eyes darting from side to side guiltily. “Um--”

“You nicked my shirt!” Dave accused him, grinning as Alan rolled his eyes. “I thought I lost it!”

“Well, you nicked my track bottoms,” Alan grumbled, even as Dave pressed a sloppy kiss to his cheek in forgiveness. “I just-- wanted a souvenir. That’s all.”

“Alright, alright. We’re even.” Dave dove down to steal more kisses, laughing when Alan groped his backside in retaliation. “Now are you still working, or are you allowed a break?”

Alan pretended to check his watch, even as Dave started kissing his neck. “I think a break is definitely in order,” he said solemnly, before they both burst into laughter.


End file.
